


Magdalen

by FallingOutOfOrbit



Series: Magdalen [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, Lesbian Character, Multi, Nazi Germany, Nazis, Spies & Secret Agents, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 106,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21657838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallingOutOfOrbit/pseuds/FallingOutOfOrbit
Summary: Beatrice Jane Wilson is a brilliant engineer volunteering for the ATS. She is one of the best, but as a small woman, and as one of the only female mechanics in the entire British army, her work is often overlooked.Magdalen Hedwig Baumann is a confident secretary working for the Nazi propaganda ministry. Her work ethic is lacklustre at best, but outside of the office, her enthusiasm for her uncle's riches knows no bounds.When the two women meet, their worlds will become one in more ways than they could possibly imagine.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: Magdalen [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561384
Kudos: 5





	1. Them Or Us

For Beatrice Wilson there it is undoubtedly satisfying to watch something burn. Be it wood, paper, or plastic, bearing witness to an objects last moments as it shrivels up is a spectacle that most enjoy.

Beatrice can testify firsthand that this satisfaction is diminished significantly when she is the one at risk of being that object.

The time is 2:31am, Tuesday the 25th of June 1940. And everything is on fire.

Beatrice is fast asleep in her bunk when the buzzing sound begins. It is quiet, but it works its way into her dreams. It grows louder, more persistent, like the call of a bee as it searches for a flower. The sound rattles and shakes, painting a violent landscape for Beatrice’s thoughts. Then the voices begin to slither in. They are muffled, but fast. Shaking herself away, Beatrice blinks the sleep from her eyes and sits up.

The room is still dark, and no light creeps in under the black-out curtains. Everything is a fuzzy sort of grey, and Beatrice can scarcely see her hand in front of her face. She can make out humanoid figures moving backwards and forth through the darkness, but she cannot see their faces. Her barrack is one of three belonging to the women in the Auxiliary Territorial Service. Most of the women around her are secretaries, telephonists, or cooks at the Cambridge base they reside in. Beatrice is not. She is an engineer.

“What…what’s going on?” she yawns, stretching her arms out.

“Transport planes. Maybe,” someone says through the darkness. “Go have a look, would you Bee?”

Lights flash and pulse outside, but there is no sound. It is the same way one might feel in a graveyard as the sun goes down.

Frustrated at being woken so early, Beatrice pushes her round glasses onto her face and reaches for her boots. In the beds around her the other women sleepily pull off their uniforms. Each woman within the same section of the ATS is given the same uniform upon enlisting. For the secretaries, that means a skirt, blazer, and peaked cap. For the telephonists it is the same, but trousers instead of pants. For Beatrice, the only engineer in the room, it means a dark grey shirt and pants with a long-sleeved jumpsuit to match. She pulls the jumpsuit up to her waist, but cannot see the buttons through the dark. Instead she ties the sleeves around her waist and calls it a day.

A tall woman, Helen, opens the door. The thin gap lets in a pale shaft of moonlight, straight into the eyes of the women that are still asleep. Beatrice slides off of her bed, and joins Helen at the door. Together, the two of them scan the base for the sound of the mysterious noise.

“Fighters,” says Helen. “Over Cambridge.”

She says it so calmly, as if spotting birds on a holiday, or a funny looking outfit in the street. Beatrice follows her finger. Far away, hovering over the city, there are half a dozen of them. Planes. From where Beatrice and Helen stand they look like nothing more than grey smudges drifting lazily across the sky.

“Ours?” asks Beatrice, with only a hint of anxiety.

“Dunno.” Helen moves with a calm sort of urgency towards the back of the room, waking the women that are still asleep as she goes.

“Grab your torches,” Helen instructs. “And your jackets. Bee, first aid kit.”  
Beatrice drags a chair across the floor and lugs the kit from its shelf. She doubts that if a bomb were to drop on their heads that a bandage would do them much good. It’s better than nothing though.

A piercing wail cuts through the air. The women groan and clap their hands over their ears. Shouts rise inside of the barracks, and out. A siren has been set off. The tired women finally stir from their sleep and begin to pull on their clothes. Those of them that are awake rush to the door, Beatrice in their midst. She is buffeted into the doorway and out into the cold night. Dozens of women in half buttoned shirts and unlaced shoes run for the bunkers on the other side of the base.

Outside, the sound is tripled. Sirens. Crowds. Engines. A mechanical symphony that screams chaos.

“Bloody hell,” someone mutters. Similar remarks are repeated amongst the crowd.

The planes are much closer now. There aren’t six. There aren’t ten. There are more than twenty, almost all bombers. They are built from hardened steel, full to the brim with German explosives pining to tear the city below them apart.

“Air raid.” Beatrice breathes. It takes her saying the words out loud for the reality of the situation to meet her. She can hardly hear herself through the din. She watches, almost in awe, as the scene before her unfolds.

Chaos. Unorganised and unmerciful. Hundreds upon hundreds of soldiers, pilots, and engineers push one another in their panic. Harsh searchlights scan the skies for the oncoming enemy, to pin them down and knock them out of the air like they are little more than flies. Anti-aircraft trucks pull up onto the concrete, and the soldiers dash for the ammunition. The scent of oil, always present here, doubles in intensity. The air bites and whips at Beatrice’s skins.

Someone grabs her arm. Her brother, Albert, stands beside her. His dark hair is flyaway, and he hasn’t even put on a jacket.

“Someone left the medic trucks next to a plane hangar!” he shouts through the din. “And we don’t get another lot until next month!”

“Who left them there?”

But Albert is already sprinting towards the hangar. Beatrice pushes the first aid kit into the arms of a passing secretary and runs after him.

Their feet pound against the cold grass. Beatrice’s breath is ragged and sharp in her chest. She struggles to keep up with Albert. She imagines the view of the pilots high above. How they watch the base below them explode into panic, the two tiny dots running as fast as they can across the grass. Their eagle-like eyes lock onto their target, fingers ready over the trigger.

Beatrice’s aching legs scream for her to stop, but she can’t. She won’t. They’re so close, jus the last stretch of grass. Beatrice can see the trucks—

A scream even sharper than the sirens cut through the night. Beatrice stops in her tracks as the sound that haunts the nightmares of every Brit cuts through the air.

The Trumpets of Jericho.

The planes are on top of them. Their noses are pointed straight at the ground, their shimmering metal bodies glinting viciously.

“Get down!”  
Beatrice throws herself to the ground, hands over her head. All she can hear are the planes. The screech of their engines get louder and louder and louder and louder. Time slows down. The nose of the plane is going to bury itself between Beatrice’s shoulder blades—

An almighty roar shakes the ground. A plume of heat rolls over Beatrice. Clumps of grass and dirt rain down around her like hail, thudding into the ground. Metal screams and tears away from its foundations. A ferocious crackling noise, like the bellow of an ancient creature, is the only noise to be heard.

Beatrice raises her head. Her glass, lying cracked beside her, reflect a waving and shining orange flicker in their lenses. She gets to her knees, her head swimming and her ears ringing. Her heart sinks.

Fire has consumed the hangar. Bright orange tendrils lick at the outer walls, but the centre is a gaping inferno dragging metal into its belly. Thick black smoke chokes the stars and smothers the moonlight. The scent of burning metal, paint, and flesh hits Beatrice like a brick wall. Even at a hundred paces, the heat is scorching.

Beatrice is paralysed. Transfixed. Enchanted by the brightness of the flames. They seem almost playful.

Albert grabs her shoulder. His mouth moves wordlessly. Beatrice cannot hear him; her ears are still ringing.

“Bee!” he shouts, his voice gradually growing louder. “Bee, can you hear me?”

“I need my glasses.”

She slips the shattered frames onto her face and turns her fractured gaze to the sky. The planes have nearly disappeared. They are nothing more than grey smudges once more; a mistake on a child’s drawing. But no child could depict a scene such as this. Drawings do not smell of smoke and skin, they do not sound like flames and shouting, they do not taste of ash and copper.

The screams begin to reach Beatrice. Agonising, weak screams that are sharp and piercing. A limp and hunched figure stumbles towards them in a haggard, tripping pathway. A pilot. His uniform and skin are burnt, smoke curls off of his hair, his limbs are twisted and held out in a desperate attempt to cease the rubbing.

“There are more back there.” he mumbles.

Behind Beatrice and Albert, medics and fire engines are mobilising. Help is close, but it is not close enough.

Beatrice sprints towards the dying hangar.

She ignores Albert’s shout of surprise and pleading. She has already taken off across the grass. Her skin prickles and glistens with every step that she takes. The blaze grows higher than the roof. Embers float around her, tiny trails of smoke following them like the tail of a comet. The hangar is almost entirely overtaken, but Beatrice can hear the anguished screams inside. Desperate pleas, cries of fear and pain, and last words to mothers and sweethearts they will never say goodbye to.

There are no bodies by the door. There is a whimpering noise though, smothered by the bellow of fire. A body sticks out from underneath a twisted beam of metal. Embers pepper their clothes, burning straight through the dark grey tights.

“Helen?” Beatrice shouts, then sees the burns along her legs. “Christ…”

“Get it off of me!”

Beatrice drops to her knees slides her hands into her sleeves to guard them against the open flames. She grabs the beam.

It scorches her hands. The metal burns straight through her jacket and tears at her skin. She screeches and drops it back onto Helen's leg. Helen’s howl is louder than the fire.

“Beatrice, please!” she sobs, pushing hopelessly at the burning metal. “Bea-ah! Beatrice!”

Beatrice grits her teeth and screams as she pushes the beam away. Her hands are on fire, almost literally on fire, and the skin peels pain in thick layers. With a slam and flurry of ash, the beam rolls off Helen’s legs. The greed woman gasps in relief. Her hands tremble over her maimed legs, but she does not dare grab at the destroyed skin.

There is no time to revel in the rescue. The metal building burns unforgivingly, and sweat drips down Beatrice’s forehead. The cloud of smoke drops lower and lower, fogging Beatrice’s glasses. She tosses them in irritation, wincing as the remaining glass shatters upon impact.

Beatrice grabs Helen’s hand and tugs her to her feet. Helen’s legs buckle; a choked gasp falls from her lips.

“I can’t walk!” she screams. “I can’t! I can’t walk!”

Beatrice pulls Helen’s arm around her shoulder and takes all of her weight. The roof groans as it sinks towards the ground. A fiery waterfall of embers sprays the ground. Helen shrieks and weakly raises an arm to shelter her head. Beatrice arches in pain as tiny flecks of fire scrape her back.

Helen falls silent; her limp form drags Beatrice down. The grey cloud cloaks the room. The heat is intolerable. Every surface threatens to scorch and burn its victim. Beatrice’s fingers brush against a stray piece of metal. It sears her skin, peeling and reddening it upon touch. Coils of pain wrap around her hand; she can almost hear the sizzle as it blisters her skin instantly.

Beatrice nearly falls to her knees as she passes through the doorway. But the fire is still growing, flames still reaching for their backs. Beatrice shuffles forward, begging herself not to drop Helen.

The medic trucks are ablaze. A trail of leaked oil has lead the flames to them, and their insides have been ravaged by the explosion. Just beyond them, firefighters are dousing the roof of the hangar. A cold spray of water falls over them. It stings at Beatrice’s skin, but she can only imagine the pain for Helen. The silent woman writhes and convulses from the pain, but does not scream. Can she?

“Just a little further,” Beatrice mutters, but she knows it is unlikely that Helen can hear her anymore. Smoke scrapes at her lungs and pain has snatched away her energy. Her legs are lead. Her will to keep going is waning.

A stocky figure darts from the crowd. There is an uproar; arms stretch out to pull him back. Albert runs through the thick smoke and slings Helen’s other arm over his shoulder.

“Keep going!” he shouts. “Nearly there!”

To Beatrice it feels like hours before they reach the crowd. Frantic hands tug at Helen, tug at Albert, tug at Beatrice. They drop to their knees in the fantastically cold grass as Helen is pulled onto a stretcher and carried away. The haze at the edge of Beatrice’s vision begins to clear. Air returns to her lungs in haggard breaths.

Albert grabs her face and turns it towards her. “Are you ok? Bee!”

“I’m fine.” she says, but her voice is hoarse and choked. Everything tastes like smoke. “My hands.”

Albert grabs the arm of a passing soldier. “Oi! Get a first aid kit! And some water!”

By the dawn, nearly three hours later, the base has relapsed into order. The hangar is still letting off blue-grey wisps of smoke, but the blaze is not more than a pile of shimmering embers. Those who made it into the bunkers are returning to their barracks. There has been no sign of the bombers since.

Whispers drift across the base, hushed from engineer to soldier, soldier to doctor, doctor to patient. Their base was not the intended target. The Germans have made a mistake.

“A mistake?” the whispers gasp. “A mistake?”

There a second base over the hill, a much larger base. Some poor German general in the middle of Berlin must have mixed up the markers, so the doctors say. An understandable mistake on the Germans part; the bases are so close together. But a mistake that has come at a great cost.

Forty-eight injured.

Twenty-three dead.

Beatrice sits in the medical building alone. The ward she has been placed in is a long thin room, more suited to a corridor than a hospital room. The black and white tiles are is lined with cots; the rooms are overflowing, and people are being shunted to the floor. The lights have been shut off, meaning that the only source of light are the beams of moonlight that fall through the tall windows above each bed. It smells of rubber, chemicals, and plastic, a pungent and sharp scent.

Not injured enough to be given the rare luxury of a cot, but too injured to be left alone, Beatrice has been sat on a stool so not as to injure her back any further. Cold bandages are wrapped around her palms and midsection. Her shirt, singed beyond repair, has been discarded. Her singlet has already been removed in order to treat the burns on her back, so the only thing that stands between her skin and the bitter night air is a bandage and her brassiere. She wants badly to wrap a blanket around her shoulders, but resists. Her back stings at the slightest provocation, and makes the passing hours tedious with boredom. There is nothing to do but listen to the pained cries of dying soldiers, and the soft murmuring of doctors.

She knows that her injuries are nothing in comparison to Helen's. Both of the poor woman’s legs are blistering and burnt. The skin has begun to peel back, revealing the much shinier, pinker surface underneath. Helen’s breathing comes slow and quiet, as rattling as a dying engine. Her eyes are closed, and her chest rises and falls gently. An IV line was inserted as soon as she had arrived, but the bag is only small, and Beatrice questions just how much relief it is providing her with.

Medical supplies have been rationed in wake of the destruction. Painkillers are few and far between. Beatrice is more than glad to have given them up for Helen’s benefit, but what she wouldn’t give for just one pill right now. Even a swig of alcohol would do something to numb the pain, surely?

The door to the ward swings open, and two doctors stride inside.

Dr Eleanor Banks is as skilled in the art of medicine as she is in the art of motherhood. She has comforted the dying patients that have graced the base over the years. She has spent the past hours going from bed to bed, taking down last words to family. There isn’t a doctor this side of the Channel that is gentler than her.

Dr Benjamin Manning is not as gentle. He is an aging man and had been quite the surgeon before the war. But surgeons are not required to be quite as comforting as nurses or duty doctors. After all, Beatrice thinks, you don’t typically engage in any sort of stimulating conversation with your patient as you remove one of their limbs.

Much to Beatrice’s distaste, Dr Banks moves towards Helen’s bed, while Manning moves towards her. He questions her about her burns. How much do they hurt? Is it a sting or an ache? Can she feel the pain? He unwraps the bandages, inspects the burns, and reapplies a cream that makes Beatrice shudder from the cold. Then he wraps her abdomen again, and the cream begins to set.

Thankfully, the burns are not as scarring as they could have been. But the impact of the burns on her skin is not what Beatrice is thinking about.

“What about my hands?” she asks. “Can I still work?”

Manning chews his bottom lip as he begins to dab ointment onto the rogue burns on Beatrice’s face. “It’s unlikely. Fixing planes is quite the heavy handed business, or so I’ve heard. You could damage the skin further and put yourself out of commission for even longer.”

Beatrice suppresses a scowl. “What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

“Rest here.” says Manning. “Just to make sure that you recover fully. I’ll check your burns again once you’ve gotten some rest. If they’ve gotten worse then you’ll be home for a few days. If not, you’ll stay here. There’s still gentle work you can do. I’m sure the ladies in the office will appreciate another pair of hands, however burnt.”

Manning finally finishes applying the cream. Beatrice’s eyes are beginning to droop, and she longs for a soft mattress. Good sleep is hard to come by in this base.

The fire has left dozens of others burnt, many far worse than Beatrice. With the help of Dr Manning, Beatrice lowers herself into one of the cots on the floor.

“Don’t sleep on your back.” he advises.

“Ever the medical genius, doctor.”

She swears that he gives her a rare smile as he turns away. She grins to herself, and thinks ‘caught you.’

The wonderfully soft cot coaxes Beatrice’s eyes shut almost immediately. As she drifts away, her dreams crackle and puff with smoke, threaded with the tang of melting bronze.

“Bee.”

“Shush, I’m asleep.”

“Bee.”

“I said I’m asleep.”

“…Bee.”

Beatrice groans and props herself up onto her elbows, pulling the sheet around her shoulders. She glowers at her brother, looking at him for the first time since being carted away to the hospital. He is unmarked, unscorched, unsinged. His black curly hair is swept low over his green eyes, and his goggles hang around his neck.

“You’ve been up already?” she asks.

“New plane.” he says. “Tennsworth wants me to have a go at flying with a Halifax. They’re not flying the Vickers as much anymore.”

“Oh, shame, I like the Vickers.” Beatrice huffs and sits up. “How does a Halifax fly? Any good?”

“Faster than a Vicker.” says Albert. “Slower climbing speed though. Oh, but the engine. Purrs like a cat, Bee. Smoothest plane I’ve ever flown."

“Can we go take a look?” says Beatrice, struggling to mask her intrigue.

After a painful half hour of redressing the burns and meticulously pulling a new shirt on, Beatrice and Albert cross the grassy patch between the medic tent and the undamaged hangar. The greenery is pockmarked with tiny craters and chunks of metal. For the first time since the night before Beatrice can see what remains of the hangar.

It is a shell now. The German’s mistake has razed the building to the ground. Only the twisted metal framework remains, curling and black. There are still piles of ash and medical supplies from the trucks scattered over the ground like discarded toys.

There had been a dozen pilots inside, all preparing to advance on the oncoming bombers. Every one of them had been killed, and every plane had succumbed to the fire.

Albert slides open the door of the undamaged hangar, metal screeching along the guide rails. It is quiet inside, and only a few personnel move about. Engineers mostly, huddling around the bodies of the planes. They are already splattered with oil, their fingertips jet black, and smelling of plane fuel.

“Here, it’s the one at the end.” says Albert, pointing towards the plane. “Take a look at that.”

The plane is long and thin, painting in a smooth layer of dark greyish-green. The glass of the cockpit sparkles from the white lights that glare overhead. The body and wings are unmarked, unpeppered by bullets, and the engines are so clean that Beatrice can see her face in their spiraled shafts. She runs her hand along the body. No bumps, no dings. Just metal and paint. Flawless.

“Rolls-Royce engine?” she asks.

“I reckon so.” Albert says. “Feels the same as one when it flies.”

Beatrice wants so badly to delve into the place and tinker. Patch its wings, fiddle with the interior, rearrange wires and fittings. A greedy part of her yearns for the day when this plane will return smoking to the ground and she can lose herself in the world of metal, tools, and engineering. What an elegant piece of machinery it is. How expensive it must have been to build.

“Hey, Wilson!”

Beatrice and Albert both turn around. A corporal stands in the doorway, his cap tucked under his arm.

“Not you Albert.” says the corporal. “Beatrice, Campbell wants a word with you.”

“Did he say what about?”

“He didn’t.”

“Probably for dragging Helen out of the hangar last night.” whispers Albert. “Medals Bee. Medals!

“I doubt it.” Beatrice gives the beautiful plane one last look and waves to Albert before making her way to Campbell’s office.

John Campbell is the commander of Squadron 101, posted in Cambridge since the beginning of the war. Campbell’s office is in a long brick building on the far side of the base. The one hallway that spans the length of the flat structure is thin and muffling, masking the footsteps of anyone who walks it. The dark paneled walls are in constant need of a good cleaning, and the windows are still covered with black out curtains from the night prior. Not that it matters thought. The base has been here since the first war, and the windows are as grimy as the underside of an old plane. Beatrice doubts that they would let in any light regardless of the curtains.

Campbell’s office is at the end. While the other rooms contain the sound of muffled chatter of radio, the last room in that old building is so silent that one could be forgiven for thinking that it is empty. Beatrice knocks on the door as hundreds of possible explanations for this meeting run through her head. Was it her that left the medic trucks by the destroyed hangar? Is she being posted with another squadron. Or is she really getting a medal for dragging Helen out of a burning hangar, risking her own life in the process?

“Come in.”

Like the hallway, Campbell’s office is dark and musty. It is well furnished though, despite its age. A small stone fireplace sits to one side, flanked by book-laden shelves on either side, all of them thick volumes. Above the horizontal window hangs a map of the world in faded colours, with tiny flags stuck into it. Beatrice wonders what the different colours mean. Blue for Allies and red for Axis? Green for assault and yellow for defence? She does not know, and she does not want to know. Engineering is effort enough in this war for her, and the last thing she wants is to be any more involved or knowledgeable about the thousands of men dying overseas.

Campbell himself is sitting behind his desk, a cigarette balanced between his teeth, and a pen dripping with ink twirling around his fingers. He is only a little taller than Beatrice, but commands twice as much authority.

“Take a seat Wilson.” he says. “We have quite the discussion ahead of us.”


	2. A Change in Plans

Campbell’s face gives away nothing. There is no pride, no joy, nothing that would indicate a conversation about medals. But Beatrice has learnt over the past year that this is the mark of a good leader. Not to show fear or doubt, even in the most minor of circumstances. She has come to accept it. Instead, as she sits down, she studies the desk for any giveaways. There are countless stacks of wrinkled and faded papers, bent folders, and stubbed out cigarettes. A half written letter lays flat in front of Campbell, but Beatrice cannot read it. It is upside down, and her talents only number so few.

Her eyes fall on a thin manila folder. It is not bent or wrinkled, and the pale yellow exterior has yet to fade. It stands out against the grey hazy tone of the rest of the room like a torchlight during the blackout. It has her name, Beatrice Wilson: Volunteer Engineer, written across the centre in squashy handwriting. Campbell’s eyes follow hers to the folder.

“Yes, we’ll get to that in a moment.” he says. “There are a few things that we should go over first?”

“Sir?

Campbell folds his arms over his narrow chest. “First things first. All conversation beyond this point is strictly confidential. No one outside of this office is to know what we’ve said. To discuss details of what we say here is classified as a treasonous act, and will be treated as such. Do you understand?”

He speaks with such equability; it is as if he has memorised lines from a script. There isn’t even a hint of authority in his eyes. He is blank.

Beatrice feels her jaw go slack. The punishment for treason is death by firing squad. Is he threatening her? She does not question Campbell though. In spite of his emotionless eyes, one eyebrow is raised in irritated waiting.

“Yes sir.”

“Good.” he says. “It is my knowledge that you are quite proficient with languages, is that correct?”

“Yes sir.”

“Which languages?”

“I’m fluent in French, and nearly fluent in German.” she says. “I know basic Italian and Danish as well.”

Campbell reaches for the folder, but does not open it. “And when did you volunteer for the ATS?”

“January seventeenth of this year.” she says. “I was accepted the next day.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m eighteen, sir.”

“And would I be correct,” he says. “That during training you were the best of your unit?”

Beatrice sits up proudly. “Yes sir. Top marks.”

“And in a unit full of men, too?”

“Yes sir.”

Campbell nods admiringly. “That’s quite good. It’s not an easy thing, let alone when you’re the only woman. It’s sad to see such talented people shunted so quickly. But your work here has been incredibly useful. Aircraft engineering, vehicle mechanics, weapons handling. All very impressive.”

“Thank you sir.”

For the first time since setting foot in this office, Campbell’s shield slips. His lip twitches downwards, and his eyes narrow. It is so fast that Beatrice nearly misses it altogether. That frown tells her that she will not like the contents of that folder.

Campbell is about to open the first page when he looks sharply up at Beatrice. “I really do mean it when I say that you can’t talk about this.”

He flips it open. There is no snapping, howling monster inside. No gruesome photos of marred soldiers flooding hospital tents. No bloodthirsty Nazi generals, or dark instruments of war craving destruction. It is a dossier, and two faces stare up at her from the pages.

“This man,” says Campbell, turning the folder around for her to read. “Do you recognise him?”

He is vaguely familiar, in sort of way you might remember someone from a newspaper, which Beatrice suspects is how she knows his face. He is middle aged with a jawline just a little too narrow to be chiselled, and wide set eyes. He looks as if having his photograph taken is an intrusion on his life. His name is listed as Konstantin Adenauer, the deputy Gauleiter of Berlin, and head of the Administration and Legal Division of the Propaganda Ministry.

“He is Goebbels’ second in command, and the beating heart that keeps their ministry working.” he says. “A temperamental and lazy man so I’ve heard, but he keeps his workers on his toes, and the paperwork flowing.

The man in the second photo is completely unfamiliar to her. His narrow face is framed by a five o’clock shadow, and his hair is swept back in a surprisingly modern style. His eyes, which are thin and hooded, are piercing. It is only a photo, but his gaze still feels to be judging Beatrice.

“Eugen Konrad.” says Campbell. “A Jewish businessman, and a long standing contact with the British government. Trustworthy and loyal to the bone, and quite skilled with languages himself. Something tells me that you’ll like him.”

Beatrice blinks once. “Like him? Sir?”

Campbell sighs, a heavy reluctant noise. “You haven’t figured it out yet?” he asks sadly. “I don’t particularly want to say the words out loud, Wilson.”

“Figured what out?” says Beatrice, panic rising in her stomach. “What haven’t I figured out?”

Campbell shakes his head, instead of explaining, he ploughs on, perhaps hoping that Beatrice will figure out his words himself.

“MI6 has already thought of everything.” he says. “According to files that have already been planted in the Nazi government, you are Magdalen Baumann, a twenty-one year old German. After the death of your parents, Hedwig and Ernst Baumann, you have lived with your aunt and uncle in Paris and are moving to Berlin to take up a job in the propaganda ministry under Minister Adenauer. During this time you will live with your ‘uncle—” He makes quotation marks around the word uncle. “—Eugen Konrad.”

Campbell’s words are in one of the many languages understood to her, yet none of them make sense. She cannot piece them together in a way that forms a coherent message until Campbell provides her with the answer.

“You are being sent to Berlin.” he says. “As a spy for MI6.”

The room is weight down with silence. Every possible thought in relation to this scenario runs through Beatrice’s head all at once. Her mind screams, bellows, and begs for clarity. Mercy. Negotiation. Campbell’s statement tumbles around in her mind like a fly skirting around cobwebs, until the poor insect finally snags a strand and is stuck like glue.

They are sending her into the heart of the enemy. Her. Beatrice Wilson. Fresh out of the schoolroom, never held a gun, can’t lie to save her life Beatrice Wilson.

“With all due respect sir,” she says. “Are you pulling my leg?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Beatrice’s fingers clench around the folder, scrunching the bottom of the paper up until it creases. But it is not in anger. The magnitude of the inevitable situation has not been fully realised, so it is only the idea of being tasked with such a fatal and suicidal mission that Beatrice can understand.

“You want to send me,” she says. “An untrained engineer, into Germany?”

“It wasn’t my idea.” says Campbell. “But yes. That is my understanding.”

Beatrice splutters. “Wh…who…why?”

“Because MI6 needs someone in Germany now.” says Campbell. “You should know as well as anyone that only a month ago, the military was in a state of panic. There is no time to train anyone, and the spies on hand are too valuable to endanger with such a task. But you, you’re…”

He stumbles to find the right word. Beatrice finds it for him.

“Expendable.”

Campbell swallows nervously. “Yes. Expendable.”

Never in all her time in the army has Beatrice ever thought of herself as especially important or significant. She has her talents, everyone does. She lives among dozens of other women just like her. She’s never stood out, never been the hero, never called for attention. But not once has she thought of herself as a drone. Another number in the files to pluck out and throw to the wolves just to see what would happen. That is not who she thinks she is.

But maybe it isn’t like that anymore.

“I understand that the idea of going to Germany is…confronting.” says Campbell. “For want of a better word. But missions like this are only given to those who MI6 believes can complete them. You’ve been under their watch for quite a while now, even before the events of the past month. They’ve described you as loyal to your fellow servicemen, hard-working, and a quick learner. Three essential traits of a good operational officer.”

“Not to mentioned being trained in secret codes, weapons handling, and investigating secret documents.” Beatrice says. “None of which I can do.”

Campbell shakes his head. “Not quite. You understand Morse Code, yes?”

“It’s part of our training.”

“And you work with weapons from time to time, don’t you?”

“Only occasionally.” says Beatrice. “I specialise in vehicles, particularly planes. That doesn’t mean I know how to aim a gun though, sir.”

“And I’m not saying you have to.” says Campbell. “Your mission is neither an assassination, nor an exploration into any specific issue. You’re being posted as a long-term scout who follows leads as she sees them. You are to be our forerunner, Wilson. The information that you discover has the potential to be passed along to well-trained spies who can take it further. Codes can be broken, but not if we don’t know about them. Do you understand?”

It hurts her to admit. But it makes sense. Why risk the life and knowledge of a well-trained, veteran spy when you can send in a fresh new subordinate? Why waste resources on hunting down secrets that mightn’t even exist when the unassuming volunteer can do it for you?

Why bother fighting a war yourself when you can push a pawn across the board and let them die in your place?

Beatrice falls silent, but makes no effort to contain the snarl on her face. It takes all of her resolve not to storm out of the office, or worse still, launch across the table and throttle the unsympathetic commander.

“This mission was initially scheduled to begin on September fourth.” he says. “But the recent invasion of Paris has brought it forward. I have reports that only yesterday Adolf Hitler toured the city, and that a swastika has been hung from the Arc de Triomphe.”

“Wait, if I’m supposed to be living in Paris—” Beatrice stops and curses at herself. To question unclear details of the mission essentially means that she has accepted it. There’s no point in questioning why something is happening if you’re not going to take part in it. But she just has questioned it. She’s as good as accepted the mission.

Not that she had a choice in the matter, though.

Campbell sees her screwing up her face, and nods encouragingly for her to continue. Beatrice takes a deep breath before finishing her question.

“If I’m supposed to be living in Paris.” she says slowly. “But Paris has just been overtaken, then how is Magdalen supposed to believably make it to Berlin? Isn’t there still fighting?”

“Do you really think they would let the Fuhrer of Germany into a front-line city?” says Campbell. “No. The French government insisted that they would not resist. There is conflict of course, but between individuals rather than armies. And as you’re listed as a pure German citizen, you’ll have no trouble crossing any borders. Paired with that blonde hair of yours, they’ll be fawning over you.”

His joke falls flat against Beatrice’s steely glower. Campbell coughs awkwardly and closes the folder.

“You’ll be leaving in half an hour.” he says. “And not a moment later.”

And the pinprick of fear waiting in the back of Beatrice’s mind explodes outwards. Shards and debris of panic sink into her skull, and she physically flinches.

“H…half an hour?” Beatrice stares at Campbell. “You can’t be serious.”

Campbell is not looking her in the eye. “I can’t do anything about it Beatrice.”

Beatrice falls silent. Reality hits her.

She will live and work among Nazis. She will infiltrate their deepest, darkest secrets. She will destroy them from the inside and win the war for the Allies.

That is what MI6 wants. But she cannot do that.

Only weeks ago, the entire war was about to be lost to the Nazis. Britain had come so close to losing after only a few months of a phoney war. Their army would have lost; everything would have been lost.

Beatrice remembers Dunkirk well. It was only a month ago that she remembers sitting cross-legged on the beach, her tools covered in sand, and a pile of jammed and battered rifles lying beside her. Behind her, artillery fire pummelled the city. In front of her, three hundred thousand men stood in neat lines facing the ocean. Some could not take it any longer after a few days. They would simply throw down their guns and wade into the water. Whether it was to swim home or give up, Beatrice does not know even to this day.

She remembers her first night of sleeping against the sandbanks. It was clear and quiet, with only faint German singing to haunt her dreams. She could see the white cliffs of Dover. They were so far away, but god dammit, they were so fucking close.

She remembers the troops being given first priority. Watching them step onto the battleships and disappearing across the waves. Then the civilian boats. Hundreds of them, manned by proud British citizen who wanted their children to come home.

But Beatrice was in the ATS. She was not important.

She remembers having to drop back into the city, hiding in that abandoned house as the Germans overran the beach. She remembers gunfire and drunken shouting in the streets below. She remembers taking her life in her hands and making a run for the furthest corner of the beach, catching the last boat as it was about to leave. She remembers watching the lights of the house she had hidden in lighting up as Nazi bullets filled the air and slaughtered the three women she had hidden with.

That was the first time she’d ever been across the Channel. And it had come so close to killing her.

“I nearly died the last time I was in France.” Beatrice says. “Sir, I can’t do that again.”

Campbell looks down at his desk and folds his fingers in a trembling fist. His shield is gone now. He shakes his head wordlessly, his eyes are red.

“Sir, please.”

He shuts the folder, and Beatrice prays that he’ll relent. Please, please, please, please.

“I’ll let your brother know you won’t be posted with us any longer.” he says. “Go pack your things.”

Beatrice stares in the mirror of the bathrooms. It is dimly lit and faintly yellow, but it is enough for her to see her uniform in full. She pulls her cap down lower over her eyes. She wants to be as close to this uniform as humanly possible, for as long as she can. The likelihood that she will ever wear it again is waning.

She unwraps the bandages around her hands. Even without glasses, she can see that they have begun to heal over. But the blisters are deep and full. They spread like clouds across her already pale skin, or like the swirl of milk as it is poured into the tea.

Beatrice looks back up into the mirror. Can this be the face of a German? In physicality she is almost German. Her father’s Danish features have been perfected translated onto her face. Icy features, low cheekbones, a square jaw. It is not a petite face, but she likes that.

But in mentality, she knows that she will break at some point. There is only so much that someone so young can take. The marching, the propaganda, the salutes, it all seems too vivid and too ludicrous to be a realistic part of her future.

Will she lose her accent? Her beautiful received pronunciation inherited from her educated mother, will it be swallowed by the harsh and difficult twists of the German language? Or will it be the clue that gives away the game, and lands her in jail? She hopes neither.

She hears voices outside of the door, a group of women are about to come in. Beatrice wipes at her eyes and shoves the bandages into the bin. She pushes past the women and steps out into the sunlight.

There is a car by the edge of the base. Campbell stands impatiently beside it, talking to a tall, blonde man that Beatrice does not recognise.

“Wilson,” says Campbell as she gets closer. “This is Private Mikhail Petrov. He’ll be taking you to Reims to meet with a resistance group who will help you cross the border.”

Mikhail gives Beatrice a little salute. She does not care enough to salute back. Instead, she turns an expectant glare to Campbell.

“Have you told Albert?” she asks. “I’d like to say goodbye before I leave.”

Campbell’s cheeks turn red. “Albert went up on another flight about ten minutes ago. He won’t be back for an hour.”

Beatrice’s throat goes tight, her arms shake. She looks up to the sky as if she might sky Albert speeding overhead in that gorgeous plane, ready to land and pull her away from all of this. But the skies are clear. It is a beautiful day.

She pushes her trunk that holds all of her belongings into the back of the car, and slips into the passenger seat beside Mikhail. Before he can start the engine, Campbell rests his hand on the door.

“I’m not supposed to tell you this.” he says in a low voice, so quiet that not even Mikhail can hear. “But if you don’t send MI6 anything of importance, they’ll organise for you to be brought back by Christmas.”

Beatrice stares at him, praying that what he has just told her is real. Is it true? Can she enjoy the benefits of a comfortable lifestyle for a few months, even if it is in an enemy country? Campbell makes no motion to suggest otherwise, and her heart lifts. Just a little.

He shakes her hand. “Godspeed Wilson.”

“Thank you sir.”

Beatrice does not take her eyes off of the base as the car’s engine rumbles to life, and it begins to drive away. There are her barracks, small with distance, and the burnt-out shell of the hangar still gently smoking. Soldiers, pilots, and ATS women all bustle about as they do their work. And somewhere far away, Albert is soaring through the air with his crew, rolling and twirling through the clouds without even a ghost of a rumour of where Beatrice is going.

Over the next few hours, Beatrice becomes acquainted with Mikhail. He is a Russian immigrant from Yekaterinburg, and has lived in England since he was a young boy. He speaks with a thick accent, smokes heavily, and speaks better French than English.

“You do not mind if we speak French?” he asks. “Is easier for me to remember.”

Beatrice allows it. She wonders if she’s just given up her last opportunity to speak English.

She discovers very quickly that, like her, Mikhail has an intense love for all things music. And yet the military somehow swallowed the both of them up regardless. Even the way that he speaks, in French at least, has a musical quality to it. His voice is smooth and clear. In the cool night air, and the growing lateness of the hour, Beatrice almost feels as if it may lull her to sleep.

“Do you play any instruments?” he asks her. “If you love music so much?”

“Violin and piano.” says Beatrice. “We had to pick two instruments to learn in school, and most of the girls wanted to learn to sing. So I chose them instead.”

Beatrice fails to mention that most of the girls at school were elitist brats with money to burn, and scorned anyone not of the same class as them. Beatrice didn’t mind so much. She’s never taken the opinions of the spoilt into account.

“Do you sing?” he asks. “Most people with nice voices can sing.”

Beatrice shrugs. “I can hold a tune, but I’m not that good. You?”

He nods. “My uncle taught me, though he is not a professional. So they’re mostly Russian songs. Or French sometimes.”

For the first time in hours, Beatrice feels a small smile creep onto her face. “Can I hear something?” she asks. “I’ve never heard a Russian song before.”

Mikhail flushes bright red. “You wouldn’t like them. They’re all about war.”

“Well, I don’t speak Russian.” she says. “So it’ll all sound the same to me.”

Mikhail clears his throat. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, a makeshift metronome. And he begins to sing in a low, haunting voice.

Ch’ornyi voron, chto ty v’esh’sya

Chto ty v’esh’sya nado mnoi

Ty dobychi ne dozhdesh’sya

Ch’ornyi voron, ya ne tvoi

Chto zh ty kryl’ya raspuskaesh’

Nad moeyu golovoi?

Il' dobychu sebe chaesh',

Ch'ornyi voron, ya ne tvoi!

Poleti v moyu storonku,

Skazhi matushke moei,

Ty skazhi moei lyubeznoi,

Chto za Rodinu ya pal.

Otnesi platok krovavyi

Miloi lyubushke moei.

Ty skazhi – ona svobodna,

Ya zhenilsya na drugoi.

Kalena strela venchala

Sredi bitvy rokovoi.

Vizhu smert' moya prikhodit

Ch'ornyi voron, ves' ya tvoi

Ves’ ya tvoi

The song is slow and lilting. It is one of those pieces that make you shiver with anticipation, but swoon at its beauty and elegance at the same time. Coupled with the unknown language and strange sounds, it is like the lure of some ancient cryptid.

Beatrice gives Mikhail a soft round of applause. “That was lovely.” she says. “What’s the song called?”

“Chernyy voron.” he says. “It means Black Raven.”

They arrive at Dover nearly an hour later. They leave the car in the car park above the docks and descend the rickety wooden stairs to the jetty. The sun has nearly set now, and the dim streetlights far above send weak golden rays down to swirl with the night time fog. Beatrice can’t see any more than a few feet ahead through the dancing light. She can hear a soldier humming somewhere in the darkness.

They come to a small grey boat at the end of the jetty. It quite looks as if it has been waiting there since the last war. Its once clean paint is flaked and cracked, leaving rusting metal and smudges of brown across the hull. The cabin takes up most of the vehicle, and barely looks like it will accompany Mikhail’s height. A miniscule lantern hangs inside, swaying gently with the tide.

“We’re sailing in that?” she asks. Mikhail only smiles and steps onboard.

“No, it’s inconspicuous, I get that.” says Beatrice, following carefully behind him. “And I know there’s only two of us, but it gets choppy in these waters. We could capsize.”

Mikhail opens the cabin door. “Do you know how to swim?”

“I can float if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Then there is no problem.” he says. “Lucky for you, I am an excellent sailor.”

Beatrice wraps her hand around her crucifix as Mikhail shuts the door. He’d best be right. Within two minutes, the port is fading into the darkness. Beatrice presses a white hand to the clouded glass and watches the dim lights of Dover disappear into the fog. The last glimpse of England. Gone.

The sun has long since set, and the fog rolls in stronger than ever. Their lantern does little to provide any sort of light. The waves, mercifully, are small, but their spray kicks up and splatters against the windows. The clouds conceal any moonlight, leaving only a faint orange glow to dance over the water. Aside from that, it is pitch black. Beatrice is just glad that Poseidon hasn’t decided to chew them up and spit them back out.

“See?” says Mikhail, steering confidently with one hand. “Nothing to worry about.”

Beatrice scoffs. it is so rare that she finds herself on a boat. The few time that she has, she suffered horribly from seasickness. Coming home from Dunkirk had been especially terrible, though Beatrice suspects that that trips discomfort could be attributed to far more than just motion sickness.

“It’ll be another hour before we reach shore.” Mikhail says, his tone more serious this time. “You look tired.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to fall asleep.” says Beatrice. Her eyes do not feel heavy in the slightest. If anything, she feels hyperactive. She can fear the gentle tick of the engine, Mikhail tapping his fingers on the wheel, and the brush of water against the hull.

“Just relax.” says Mikhail. “Rest while you still can.”

The cabin has no chairs, so Beatrice slides to the floor and rests her head against the wall. As the water disappears from view the knot in her stomach unravels. She feels a gentle sort of fatigue wash over her. Without the threat of the ocean in view, she realises that she is actually tired.

She thinks of Albert. Poor, clueless Albert who must know by now that Beatrice is long gone, and never got the chance to say goodbye. Optimistic Albert who will be shaking with fury, screaming at Campbell to bring her back. Brave Albert who will be on his knees and cursing a God that is supposed to be merciful.

Beatrice must fall asleep at some point. She is shaken awake by the boat rattling violently. The bow pitches upwards and sends her flat against the floor. Her bag skids along the ground and smacks her in the face.

“I have underestimated how close the beach is.” says Mikhail.

Run aground is an understatement. The underside of the bow is buried deep in the sand bank, millions of tiny brown grains spilling onto the deck. Chunks of sea weed and other water plants are plastered to the side. Only the stern is still in the water.

“At least we won’t get wet.” says Mikhail hopefully. Beatrice stares frustratedly at him.

They climb over the railing and jump onto the beach. Sand fills Beatrice’s shoes as they climb the sandbanks and emerge onto the road that runs parallel to the water. Far away, she thinks she can see the hazy outline of Calais. Naturally, during a state of war, all of the lights are extinguished.

There is a car parked behind a worn-down bus shelter. It is not a military type, but a civilian car, simple and black. Beatrice stares at Mikhail as he pulls off his jacket.

“What are you doing?”

“You don’t want to get spotted by the Nazi’s, do you?” he asks. “Get changed into your everyday clothes. That way we won’t draw attention.”

Beatrice dresses quickly behind the shelter. She would much rather face a Nazi in clothes that are easy to run in, but she would also like not to be seen by them in the first place. She pulls on a skirt, tights, and a long coat, then slips out of her boots and into a pair of Oxford flats. She misses her glasses.

When she steps back out onto the road, Mikhail is buttoning up his jacket. They climb into the unassuming new car. It is warm inside, and Beatrice can let her head loll back comfortably.

“Now in the unlikely chance that we come across any Germans,” says Mikhail as he starts the engine. “We are brother and sister travelling to see our parents in Cambrai.”

It is a secret believable enough. But Beatrice would much prefer to have the paperwork to support it. She crosses her fingers and prays that any Germans they may come across will take their word for it.


	3. Lady de Leroux

The dark night sky seems to grow larger the longer that they drive. The moon is the only source of light. Nothing glows, nothing shines, nothing moves. The tiny villages that they pass through are inky with darkness, so much so that Beatrice nearly misses them altogether. And for all she knows, they could be abandoned. These people would have been right in the midst of the Germans path to destruction at Calais and Dunkirk. It is entirely possible that they have relocated south.

“We never got this view from Yekaterinburg.” says Mikhail, looking to the star studded sky. “All of the buildings were in the way.”

He glances in the rear view mirror. He frowns, eyebrows drawing together.

“Is that another car behind us?” he asks.

Beatrice twists around in her seat and searches the horizon for whatever it is that Mikhail is seeing. She squints, the headrests are in the way. Then something flashes in her eye, and she recoils. Out of the darkness, it emerges. Headlights. And the loud rumble of the engine of a very large and very powerful vehicle.

“I think so.” she says, though her voice wavers with uncertainty. “The headlights are very far apart—”

She realises then, the blood draining from her face, what it is that is following them.

“Speed up.” she whispers. Beatrice does not know why she speaks so quietly; they have already been spotted. It’s too late.

“Why?” Mikhail glances over his shoulder. “What is following us?”

Beatrice looks around for a second time. She prays fervently, hoping that her lack of glasses is the reason for the horror in front of her eyes. But it only serves to confirm her fears.

“Two motorbikes.” she breathes. “And a tank.”

Mikhail splutters. His head flashes backwards and forth so fast that it looks as if he is shaking his head.

“A…a tank?”

“And two motorbikes.”

The car crawls forwards faster as Mikhail slams down on the accelerator. The headlights grow smaller; the sound of engines quietens.

“Davay dyadya, idi bystreye.” Mikhail mutters.

Then the world cracks and shakes, and the air turns blisteringly hot. The car jerks to the side and spins around. Beatrice throws her arms up as glass shatters and rakes along her skin. She tastes blood, her cheek has been gashed open. The car comes to a grating halt, now facing the oncoming tank. Beatrice can only feel a growing heat just behind her head, and she can smell smoke. She throws the door open and falls out onto the road, coughing up what little food she has eaten.

“Mikhail?” she chokes out. “Mikhail?”

The back of the car is going up in smoke. Mikhail is on his hands and knees on the other side, gasping for air. Beatrice stumbles around to him, her feet slipping as if she is running on ice.

“We need to go,” she says, grabbing his arm. “Come on.”

“Over there.” Mikhail points. “The woods.”

They move falteringly at first as the first sways and dances around them. Then their vision begins to clear, and their limbs stop shaking. They run faster and faster, though every step sends a wave of pain through Beatrice’s legs, her lungs, her back. Her breath hitches, her hands sting.

The purring engines of the motorbikes are all that she can hear. She imagines a hand grabbing her shirt, the cold barrel of a gun against the back of her head, the click of a trigger being pulled—

A sharp clap fills the air. Beatrice’s scream dies in her throat as shards of bark spray her, shocking the fear from her. She chances a look over her shoulder as she runs. Both motorbikes have stopped, and all four soldiers are thundering after them. Each of them carries a rifle. 

“Keep going!” Mikhail shouts, as if Beatrice has any other intention.

One, two, three more shots. Bark and leaves cover Beatrice’s hair, her face, her eyes. She trips and climbs to her feet again. Every missteps gives ground away to the advancing Germans.

Another gunshot. Leaves fly into the air as Mikhail falls to the forest floor. He is screaming and clutching at his leg. Bile rises in Beatrice’s throat.

His lower leg is soaked with dark red blood that spills over his hands and stains the forest around him. He tips back his head and bellows in pain.

“Yebla ad.” he hisses. “Fuck…”

Beatrice drops to her knees beside him. Mikhail’s hands shake as she pries them away from his leg. There is no exit wound; the bullet is inside of his leg. Warm blood trickles down her wrist.

“Help me up.” he pants. “Don’t leave me here.”

Beatrice pulls one of his arms around her shoulder. He gives a wrecking scream as his leg knocks into hers and pushes the bullet further inside.

“Put your weight on me,” Beatrice says. “You’re ok.”

“There’s a gun in my pocket.” Mikhail groans through gritted teeth. Beatrice feels through his coat and pulls out a pistol.

“Do you know how to use it?”

“No!”

“You have to try.”

Beatrice blindly fires twice. The soldiers dive behind the wide trees trunk, but neither bullet finds a target.

“Missed,” says Beatrice. She is glad that she has not hit anyone.

The pair weaves through the trees, the soldiers not far behind. Mikhail grunts in pain each time his foot hits the ground, and his weight drags Beatrice down. She fires over her shoulder again, three shots this time. A symphony of shrieks at varying pitches confirm that this time each bullet has found a home.

“Prosti dyadya.” Mikhail says. “Good shot.”

They are putting up a gallant effort. Beatrice knows that. But taking down one soldier is not enough, because there are still four soldiers behind them.

Amongst the dozens of others, one single shot is louder than anything Beatrice has ever heard in her life. Mikhail slips from Beatrice’s grasp and slams into the ground like a tree being felled. His screams are likes knives. Blood spurts from his back like a fountain.

“Saint Peter.” she breathes.

Mikhail writhes in pain. His head rears back like some dragon of old, mouth opening in harsh cries of pain. He screams and pleads for help in strained, guttural Russian that Beatrice cannot understand.

She feels a body slam into her, and she hits a tree. A bayonet is thrust under her chin.

“Bewege dich nicht!”

Beatrice complies, and raises her arms beside her head. She is still trying to wrap her head around what is happening.

The rest of the soldiers come crashing through the trees in succession. Beatrice’s heart sinks lower and lower each time. Each face is as cruel and sharp as the last, if not more so. All of them are armed, and all of them circle around her and Mikhail. They are vultures.

Then comes the officer.

He is tall, even taller than Mikhail. His cap is pulled down low over his eyes. Under the dark cover of threes, his angular face is obscured by shadow. Alone, he scares Beatrice more than all of the other soldiers combined. He walks like a wolf; long elegant strides. His gaze is focussed but relaxed, and he holds his hands behind his back. He looks bored.

As casually as one might take their morning stroll, he saunters towards Mikhail. The poor man is losing energy; his eyes are half closed. He is whispering curses in Russian now, so soft that Beatrice is struggling to hear them. Ever so gently, the officer tips his head to the side with the toe of his long, dark boots.

“Russisch.” He says it so politely, as if he is observing the weather. He casts his gaze across the clearing to Beatrice. She wants to melt into the tree that her back is pressed against.

“Ist das ein Soldat, oder ein Kind?” he says.

There is a quiet ripple of laughter across the soldiers. The bayonet shakes under Beatrice’s chin. She inhales sharply as it opens a line across her throat, and a drop of blood rolls down her skin.

“Achtgaben.” The officer pushes the gun away carefully. He edges the soldier away and steps closer. Beatrice wants to step back, but she is already pressed as close as possible against the tree. She keeps her hands up.

“Ty tozhe russkiy?” he asks. Beatrice assumes that he is asking her what nationality she is; she shakes her head.

He tilts his head to the side thoughtfully. “Êtes-vous Français?”

Beatrice decides that it is too late to keep up the lie she agreed upon with Mikhail. It is clear that he is not French. And what good is their claim to familial relation now? She’s as good as gone. She shakes her head.

“Deutsch?”

“No.” Her voice comes as a whisper.

“English.” The officer rolls the word off of his tongue, as if muttering something vulgar.

He bends down to meet Beatrice’s eyes, folding his hands behind his back again. His eyes look her up and down, emotionless. She watches him with apprehension, surprised that she is able to maintain eye contact. She flinches as he reaches out a hand, his gaunt fingers curling around her wrist. She lowers her arms as he turns her palm over.

“What happened to your hands?” he asks. “It looks painful.”

His fingertips elicit painful stinging jolts across her skin. She tries to tug away, but his grip is strong. His bony fingers dig into her flesh like knives.

“Well?”

“I…it’s a long story.”

The officer sighs. “What a shame. Perhaps another time.”

Beatrice’s heart skips a beat. Another time? Where is she going after this that might allow her to tell this officer what happened to her hands? Isn’t he going to shoot her?

He sees the confused look on her face, and lets his hand slide away. “I know what you’re thinking. We’re not going to shoot you. Not yet. I have little use for a dead spy.”

He knows. He knows.

How does he know?

The officer leans close to Beatrice’s face. She can see the dark colour of his eyes. Iron grey, and flecked with miniscule blue streaks as cold as ice.

“Because that’s what you are, isn’t it?” he says quietly. “A little spy. Sent to lie, cheat, and steal state secrets. It’s a clever game, but a dangerous one. And seldom successful.”

Beatrice cannot draw her breath. Maybe it is how close he is to her face, or maybe the slow, looming threats that tumble from his mouth like bullets firing from a gun, each one sinking closer and closer towards its mark.

“What’s your name, kleine Pom?”

She cannot give him her name. Beatrice refuses to indulge him. She knows by how close he stands, and the teasing lilt of his voice, that he will only mock her with it. And what is the point of telling someone your name if they are about to put a bullet in your head?

“I wouldn’t have thought that was a difficult question.” says the officer. He and Beatrice stare at one another for ten seconds, with nothing but silence passing between them. Something metallic brushes her fingers; Beatrice can feel his breath on her cheek. Finally, he sighs and leans away.

“Very well then.” he says, the lazy colour of his voice turning harsh with authority. “Have it your way—”

Beatrice grabs the gun from the officers holster and pulls the trigger.

It fires into his leg, and blood explodes outwards. In the second between pulling the trigger and the officer hitting the ground, Beatrice wildly points the gun and shoots it.

Again, again, again, again, again.

Four soldiers hit the ground before they realise what has happened. Only one has the sense to at least raise his gun at Beatrice.

“Leg es runter!” he shouts. “Leg das Gewehr herunter

But his hands are trembling. And so are Beatrice’s. The soldier is a boy, barely any older than she is. He keeps his sights aimed on her, and the butt of the heavy gun against his cheek. His finger is not curled around the trigger, but rests on the gleaming body of the weapon where it cannot do any harm.

“Leg es runter.” he says softly. “Bitte.”

It is not an order of cooperation. It is a plea for life.

Beatrice jumps back as the officer groans. He pushes himself up into a sitting position and glowers between the boy and the girl.

“Erschiesse sie.” he hisses. “Jetzt.”

The boy clears his throat. His blue eyes are sparkling. “Ich kann nicht, mein Herr.”

The officer’s teeth seem pointed as his lip curls back in a cold snarl. “Mach weiter du Feigling.”

The boy blanches. His finger slides towards the trigger.

Beatrice shoots.

His head snaps back as if she has punched him under the jaw. His eyes are wide in shock, and blood drips down between them. He topples slowly and drops to the ground beside his unit.

The officer groans and falls back. He watches Beatrice as she lowers the gun. Blood drips down her leg. His blood.

“That was your first kill.” he says. “The first time you’ve seen the life leave a person’s eyes and know that it’s because of you.”

His voice stings as sharply as her hands. Everything stings. Beatrice cannot take her eyes off of the corpses that litter the ground. This was her doing.

“A person will often do horrible things when they’re trying to survive.” he says. “And whilst we’re on the topic of survival, are you going to shoot me, or should I expect to be bleeding to my death instead?”

Beatrice cannot believe his offhand words. His request for a quick death. What sort of person is so comfortable with the idea of murder that they can simply ask for it and expect deliverance? This is no place to die. A dark, haunting forest in the middle of an occupied country.

The reality of taking a person’s life is setting in. Beatrice cannot do that again. The gun slips from her hands and falls just out of the officers reach. He huffs and folds his bloody hands atop his chest.

“Very well.” he says. “It seems as if I’m to bleed out. If you happen to come across my wife in Germany be a darling and give her my love.”

Beatrice looks from him to Mikhail, who has fallen silent and still. From Mikhail to the soldiers she has murdered. From the soldiers back to the officer.

What has she done?

The logs underfoot trip Beatrice as she stumbles into the trees. She catches a ghost of a mutter from the officer, harsh words that she cannot understand, before the shadows envelop her entirely and the forest goes silent.

Every tree looks the same. Every branch sticks out at the same angle. Every dark leaf blows and sways in the same direction. Beatrice spins around and looks for something, anything, that will point her towards civilisation. But there is nothing. She does not know even know which way she’s come from. She thinks about climbing a tree, but the lowest limbs are well above her head. Besides, she’s been walking for hours as hasn’t found anything. It won’t do her any good.

There are no roads here. No paths. No lights. Nothing. Not even the sound of artillery in the distance to mark the war. She begs desperately for a tiny sound. Cars. Voices. Hell, she’ll even take a German right now, just anything to kill the damning silence that is slowly driving her to madness.

Mind scattered, her thoughts dance between the forest and Mikhail. Dead, cold, paralysed Mikhail. Bloody and forgotten. Who will know where to find his body? Who will mourn him at home? Why did she drop him? She should’ve kept running.

“Stupid, stupid, shouldn’t have stopped, you fucking killed him Beatrice, you killed him, you killed all of them…”

A branch snaps. Beatrice presses herself against a tree. Through the darkness, she sees a blurry figure clutching a gun, hands outstretched.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright!” calls the stranger. “I’m not German.”

Beatrice peers at his uniform. It is dark brown, and a blue beret is pulled over his dark hair. He is French. Slowly, she steps away from the tree.

“Wilson, right?” he asks. “Beatrice Wilson, Squadron 101?”

“R…right.” Beatrice is unsure of what to say to him. She does not know this man, or where he is from. “And you are?”

He gives her a tiny salute, almost mocking in nature, but with a good-natured smile. “Caporal Anton Deville, second in command of the Reims encampment.”

Reims. That was where they headed before the tank unit found them. Along with knowing her name and squadron, she is beginning to trust the caporal.

“I need your position.” says Deville. “So I know that it’s you.”

Beatrice hopes that he means her position as an engineer. She’s not even sure if she’s been officially enlisted into MI6. What is the official name for a spy again?

“Volunteer Engineer Beatrice Wilson, Squadron 101. Cambridge. Enlisted January 17 of this year…operational officer.” she adds quickly. “Operational officer as of June 25th.”

Deville beams. “Spot on. Right…now, you’re not hurt are you?”

“Not physically, no.”

He chuckles. “Welcome to occupied-France, Wilson. That’s just the nature of way. Follow me, time is quite short, and there have been some upsetting delays.”

As the pair walks through the woods, Deville eyes the dried blood that plasters Beatrice with a wary eye, but he says nothing. Beatrice is grateful for that. She is not ready to recount that bloody encounter just yet. She is still reeling, and the power of the gun still makes her hands wobble and her ears ring.

“The lieutenant sent half a dozen of us out over the road you were travelling.” says Deville. “One of our scouts reported that you landed much too close to Calais for safety. You were supposed to land near Boulogne.”

“I was a little worried about that.” says Beatrice. “They’ve just stopped the fighting haven’t they?”

“It’s simmered down quite a bit.” he says. “But there are still pockets of conflict, and the Germans obviously wouldn’t take too kindly to strange boats landing along the coast…wait a minute, where’s your driver?”

Beatrice flinches. She would prefer not to answer, but Deville’s questioning stare is so persistent that she finds herself obligated to.

“He’s dead.”

It is the first time that she has said the words out loud. Dead. Killed. Deceased. Laying bloodied and paralysed in the middle of the French wilderness, surrounded by the bodies of German soldiers who were going to kill him, with only the dying officer for company. Was he still alive, or had his bullet wound finally dragged him down?

The fear Mikhail must have been feeling. The terror. Beatrice can only imagine the pain that he was in, powerless and bleeding out. By now his skin will be blue and ice cold. His eyes will be blank and empty. Lifeless. Staring into the red dirt where he’d just died. His clothes will be stained dark with blood, the last whisper of chernyy veron on his lips.

It is no place to die.

Not for anyone.

Beatrice and Deville stumble through the woods towards Reims. The forest is not so twisted when another person walks beside you. It does not feel so repetitive. So large. So empty. Above them, the stars seem to twinkle with an air of aggression. They all feel so blinding, so intense. Every one of them is a bomber, a Stuka, a German plane just itching to swoop down and blow them all the way back to those foggy docks in Dover.

“The encampment isn’t far from here.” says Deville. “I’ve got a motorcycle up ahead. We should be there within the hour.”

Beatrice perches behind Deville on the slim motorcycle. They speed over bumps and careworn roads. The wind is freezing, and the growl of the engine is ear-splitting. Every pothole sends a jolt through Beatrice. She clutches onto Deville’s shoulder as the road threatens to throw her from her seat.

“It’s perfectly safe!’ Deville reassures her over the din. “I’ve never fallen off!”

Beatrice wants to retort back, but she’s too afraid to even open her mouth. But true to Deville’s word, Beatrice manages to cling on for the duration of the trip. Forty minutes of panic pass before they turn onto a practically invisible dirt road. The bike slows, the engine clicking, before squealing to a stop.

They walk down a narrow dirt path in silence. Deville wheels the motorbike beside him, and the only sound is the click and rattle of the wheels against the rough ground, kicking up tiny rocks and stones. The rest of France is asleep, or at least pretending to be, and so the bike sounds like a fanfare in comparison.

It is just before dawn. The sky is a gentle shade of dark grey, but pale yellow and green hint at the horizons as the first beams of sunlight are preparing to make their appearance. The trees here are impossible tall. They begin to close over as if to form a natural, jagged archway. Beatrice feel as if she is walking through a tunnel that will never end. No light filters through from above, and the ivy soaked trees stand at attention for miles in every direction. There are no bird calls just yet. No vehicles passing along the road at their backs. It is just Beatrice, the caporal, and his bike.

It is quiet here.

When they reach the encampment, Beatrice is more than disappointed. She had expected something like Cambridge. Dull brick buildings with electricity and running water, neat soldiers with shining weapons, and the perfection of a well-disciplined military squadron.

Instead, she is greeted by a dozen grey tents, and only a squat building atop a ghost of a hill. Ten or so soldiers mill about in mismatched uniforms and dark blue berets that match Deville’s. They shuffle sleepily, guns slung over their shoulders, and holds mugs of weak coffee in their pale, numb hands. The entire camp can’t be more than a quarter of the size of the base in England.

“This isn’t a unit. This is a resistance cell.” Beatrice thinks.

France has fallen to the Nazis. Their government has been overthrown. There is no army, not any more. Ranks mean nothing, medals mean nothing. The few resources that they own have been patched together by those who have managed to escape the advancing German units. This is a squadron that does not operate on orders given from a high command. This is a unit operating on the request of a government over the Channel, and the word of de facto leaders and revolutionaries. In the eyes of the Germans, these people are criminals.

It is no small wonder then why their uniforms are so unruly. As Beatrice and Deville pick their way through the camp, she sees clothing from a number of sources. The French army, the English, even a German coat or two. Civilian clothing is abundant. One man wears a French jacket and beret, and a pair of suit pants on his legs. All of them are injured or hurt in some way. Gashes, bruises, broken arms, wounds, cuts. A missing limb. A gauged out eye.

But what astounds Beatrice the most is not the uniforms. Not the imperfections of the soldiers or their tents. It is the women. Women wearing uniforms that are identical to the men’s, women standing guard at various points around the camp, women carrying guns. Women that are soldiers. Patriotic women are valued at home, but never would they be allowed into the same front line ranks as men. As nurses, clerks, and telephonists, yes. But as soldiers? No. Not a chance. She sees a steely resolve in these women’s eyes. A resolve that screams ‘I dare you to second-guess me.’ A resolve that longs for revenge on the men who have overrun their country. A resolve that is proud and strong to hold a gun and fight for freedom.

Beatrice does not know these women’s names. But she admires them.

“Lieutenant Herbert will want to speak with you.” says Deville. “This way.”

Beatrice realises, as they walk, that Deville is not entirely in the correct uniform either. He is wearing civilians shoes instead of boots, and an English shirt instead of French. She follows him through the maze of tents. A myriad of smells hits her. Sweat, blood, and dirt. Tea, coffee, and shaving cream. Cloth, alcohol, and copper. Even the scent of metal and rain is being carried on the early morning wind, faint and tangy. There are smells to make Beatrice feel as if she isn’t in the middle of occupied France. Then something hidden and secret appears, and she is pulled back into it over and over again. It is the turbulent scent of war.

They come to the brick building at the rear of the camp. Deville knocks on the door, and it is opened within seconds.

Lieutenant Pierre Herbert is, without a doubt, a square shaped man. He has a square head and jaw, which is set on top of his rectangular neck. Even his uniform is boxy on his sharp shoulders. His hair, which is dark and short, sits close against his head.

“Sir.” says Deville. “This is Officer Wilson, the agent sent by MI6.”

Agent. The meaning of the word is true now. An operational officer, that is what Beatrice is now. A spy.

“The Brit?” asks Herbert, looking at her with his square eyes narrowed. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

“I know, sir. I realise that it has been quite hectic.”

“Hectic is an understatement.” says Herbert. “Dismissed, Deville.”

Deville gives Beatrice a small smile before disappearing into the mess of tents. Beatrice realises that she has forgotten to thank him. But there is no time to dwell on it as Herbert ushers her inside.

The building is a sort of cross between a kitchen, bedroom, and office. There is a large wooden dining table in the middle, its rough surface covered in papers and folders. The cabinets and drawers along the far wall are disorganised and splintered across every inch. There is a camp bed in the miniscule hallway that is laden with threadbare blankets. The whole room smells of old tea and cigarette smoke. It is familiar to Beatrice, but not necessarily comforting.

Sitting at the table is a woman who looks to be about Beatrice’s age, maybe a little older. But that is where the similarities between them end. She has dark brown skin that glows in the early morning sunlight, and black frizzy hair that comes to an abrupt halt just above her shoulders. Her uniform, like the others, is made up from a jumble of armies. A French jacket, a British skirt, and boots that Beatrice cannot place. Despite the uniform, she wears bright red lipstick. She smiles warmly at Beatrice.

“Wilson, this is Claudette de Leroux.” says Herbert, motioning towards the woman. “She is in charge of your identification papers and disguise.”

“Disguise?” asks Beatrice. “What, like a trench coat and glasses?” Beatrice’s attempt at humour is made dull by her exhaustion. But Claudette laughs all the same.

“Not quite.” she says, with an elegant French accent. “New clothes, better suited to someone of Magdalen Baumann’s elite standing. Another pair of glasses, some personal belongings too. I’ve also managed to forge a passport and the papers required by the German government.”

Claudette lifts a large trunk onto the table. She flips it open and turns it towards Beatrice.

“Take a look.” she says. “There isn’t much, but you can buy more once you’re in Berlin.”

Beatrice pokes through her new belongings. Bright skirts, warm jumpers, and neat blouses, all in soft but slightly rough fabric; the tell-tale sign of rationed clothing. There is a small bag at the bottom with a hairbrush, ribbons, toothbrush, and toothpaste.

“And this as well.” Claudette passes over a handbag. Inside Beatrice finds her passport and ID papers. Her military photo sits within the first page, but it has been cut and cropped so that it does not reveal her uniform. Beatrice also comes across a purse that she assumes is full of money, and a glasses case. Beatrice flips it open and finds a pair of thin, round black glasses. She slides them onto her face and sighs in relief as the world comes into focus.

“Oh, that’s much better.” she admires. “How did you get my prescription?”

“I’m in the army, I have my means.” says Claudette. “Do they fit?”

“Like a glove.”

Beatrice snaps the case shut and lets her eyes get used to the new frames. She falls into the seat across from Herbert, who glares at her with angular eyes. She does not care. This is the first time she’s properly sat down in hours.

“As I understand it, you’ve been given the outline of your mission, yes?” he asks.

“Yes sir.” says Beatrice. “But I feel as if there is a large chunk of information missing. I don’t have…well, it doesn’t seem to be a very specific mission sir. I know that it’s up to me to find leads, but surely there’s a certain area that I need to be looking into? Defence, missions, locations of important resources, something like that?”

“That isn’t your job.” says Herbert. “Your job is to cover all areas that could provide us with information, and if possible, act on them. If not possible, you need to find a way to send that information to us and MI6 so that we can send in someone more qualified to complete it.”

“It still all seems very vague.”

“Don’t think of this as a mission, Wilson.” he says. “Think of it as a long-term posting, wherein you are simultaneously the general and the soldier. You give the orders, and you act on those orders. So long as you remain undetected and continue to send us information, it doesn’t matter to us how it gets done. Just that it gets done.”

“I’m hoping that it doesn’t come to being detected.” says Beatrice, picking at her palm. “But it seems quite likely, seeing as I’m not as fluent in German as you seem to think I am. And I’ve not been trained either. Not in codes, not in interrogations, not even in how to use a gun properly. I’ve shot at least ten people tonight, and that was on pure bloody coincidence. And one might think that gunmanship is quite an integral skill to have when you’re surrounded by fucking Krauts.”

Beatrice feels a red flush creeping up her neck as she speaks, but she supresses it, lest her rare but vicious temper show itself. She wants to scream until her throat bleeds. She wants to run away to England and never cross the Channel again. But then Mikhail will have died for nothing, and she will be shot for cowardice.

“You will not need training.” says Herbert. “It is a simple job. You don’t need to set up informer networks, and you’re not required to assassinate anyone. Your job, in the most basic of terms, is to find useful documents, record them, and give them to Eugen Konrad to deliver to us. My grandmother could do it; god rest her soul. I’ve been assured that you are a capable woman, and more than willing to serve your country.”

Beatrice clenches her jaw and feels her face begin to curl into a snarl. “Well someone has lied to you, sir. I am not a spy; I am an engineer. I can speak German, but I’m certainly not fluent, and I sure as hell would not do anything to serve my country.”

Beatrice purses her lips. She doesn’t know why she’s arguing. She has already lost. The mission is going ahead regardless of what she wants. It will drag her through the mud, over the mountains, and to the deepest depths of the English-fucking-Channel to get its way.

She takes a deep breath. “Since I’m so…unpractised.” she says. “I hope you’ve got some sort of…I don’t know, contingency plan in order?”

“Some sort of what?”

“Contingency?” says Beatrice, scowling. “You know, plan d’urgence? For when this whole parade goes wrong, and I need to get out of there.”

Herbert shakes his head. “There isn’t one. From the moment you leave this camp, from tomorrow until the end of the war, you will be excommunicated. Only Eugen Konrad will have any contact with us. If something goes wrong Wilson, there cannot be any ties, or they will trace you back to us.”

Beatrice feels as if she has just spent hours on a boat being told that she is just about to be thrown into the ocean, but ‘wait, don’t worry, you’ll have a life rope.’ Now it feels as if she has just been pushed overboard, only to realise that there is no life rope, and the boat is rowing away. She paddles in the centre of the ocean with no land in sight. Only the dark curve of a white fin is visible some hundred feet away. It circles close to her, then away again? Is it a shark? Is it a dolphin? Is it a whale? Beatrice worries; she does not know.

Beatrice looks between Herbert and Claudette. The boxy officer seems unconcerned. Claudette, who has been silent and watchful the entire time, stare straight down at the table, her face unmoving and unreadable.

Beatrice laughs quietly, but there is no humour in it. “You’re joking.”

“They cannot find us.” says Herbert. “I’m sorry Wilson, but there’s no way around it. Your singular death is the lesser of two evils. One agent, or four dozen soldiers.”

She cannot believe him. He speaks of her inevitable death as if she is the flowerpot in the corner, left out of the sunlight and already wilting. All he has to do is move it where the sun can touch it, but her refuses.

He refuses.

And Beatrice is dying.


	4. Your Papers Fraulein

As the sun begins to rise, the rest of the camp awakens. The blue grey smoke that trails from the ends of soldiers cigarettes are highlighted white in the morning sunlight. It filters lazily through the swaying trees to project sparkling circles on the trampled ground. Bit by bit, the camp groans and pulls the blankets off.

Beatrice finds herself in the dining tent with a mug of bitterly weak tea in front of her, surrounded by dozens of French resistance soldiers. Her hands have been rebandaged, and her bloodied and torn clothes have been replaced. She thanks God that her burns did not burst and infect the night prior; she would be in an entirely different world of pain had that happened.

Claudette sits across from her; her coffee is equally as poor. Her dark hair is unpinned and springs out in all directions. Her wide eyes are dull with exhaustion. They have a glassy look to them that Beatrice knows are reflected in her own. She can feel the hollowness to her cheeks, and the apathy in her gaze.

“Are you feeling alright?” Claudette asks. “You look a little…I don’t know, pale.”

“I’m alright.” Beatrice takes a sip of her tea, but gags on it immediately. It is bitter, and has nearly gone cold. “God, that’s awful.”

Claudette smiles grimly. “You’ll do just fine in Germany, you know?” she says. “Maybe your German is not perfect, but Magdalen is supposed to have lived in France. It would make sense for you not to be fluent.”

“I appreciate the encouragement Claudette, I really do.” says Beatrice. “But right now, before I leave for the godforsaken place, I’d rather talk about nearly anything else.”

Claudette gulps down her coffee. “That’s fair I suppose.” she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “What would you rather talk about?”

“Philosophy. Ancient history. Modern day paganism.”

“Communism and the possibility of extra-terrestrials?”

Beatrice is beginning to like Claudette more and more by the minute. She seems to know how Beatrice is feeling at any given moment, and whether or not she needs to be left alone. Beatrice can’t help but enjoy her company despite what others might think about the woman.

“What about your family?” asks Claudette. “That seems to be what everyone else is talking about.”

“I suppose so.” says Beatrice. “Well, my mother’s English. Oxford specifically, and my father was Danish. He went missing…oh, about a month or two before I was born. And no, before you ask, I don’t miss him.”

And it’s true. Beatrice does not care one ounce for her father. From the way that her mother speaks about him, on the rare occasion that she does, it is with distaste. It is as if she would rather talk about the mould growing underneath the bathroom sink. Jane has only one photo of Soren Magnussen, which she keeps at the bottom of a dusty box in the kitchen. A portrait, blurry and small. When she had been little, Beatrice had taken to pulling it out and staring at it. Memorising it. At first it had just been to remember his face, to try and understand what is it like to have a father whose appearance you know well. Then, as she had grown older, she had tried to see herself in that photo. The blonde hair and light eyes are the most obvious thing. She had begun to notice other features over the years too. Asymmetrical lips, deep set eyes, and low cheekbones. Beatrice is the dead opposite of her mother’s dark, straight hair, and angular face. So when Jane Wilson speaks harshly of her ill-loved husband, a flicker of grief grows in Beatrice, as she is the last remaining tie to a man so viciously hated by her own mother.

“I wasn’t going to ask.” says Claudette. “Do you have any siblings?”

“Two brothers, two sisters, and another on the way.” says Beatrice. “Albert and I technically aren’t related. His father, John, he married my mother when we were about three years old. The others are all step-siblings.”

“So who’s Albert’s mother?”

Beatrice smiles. “Have you heard of Giorgia Bianchi?”

Claudette gasps, and her mug threatens to tip. But she does not care, and she stares at Beatrice with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“She’s my favourite actress!” she says. “Is she really Albert’s mother? What’s she like?”

Beatrice shrugs. “Like any actress I suppose. Nice enough, but very eccentric, and incredibly rich. What about you? Any celebrities on your side?”

Claudette laughs. “No, no celebrities I’m afraid.” she says. “My mother is a designer in Paris. She met Giorgia Bianchi; she was in charge of all the costumes for the Day is Marseille. Anyway, my mother had me with a Nigerian soldier who’d deserted after the first war. About a month after I was born, my mother married my step-father. He already had a daughter from a previous marriage. Yvonne. She’s about…seven years older than me.”

“Nice?”

“To me. She’s very serious.”

Claudette is turning out to be more than a distraction from the days to come. In spite of what people say about her, Beatrice likes the quiet, excitable girl. Perhaps she even considers her a friend. People assume the worst of those with African heritage, no matter the circumstance. Beatrice has seen the way some of the soldiers look at Claudette. They recoil, a hushed slur on their lips. Beatrice feels a surge of protectiveness for her. She almost feels bad for having to leave her here. Then she remembers where she is going, and the guilt disappears.

It isn’t long before the entire camp is alive and bustling. Mismatched soldiers take to their posts as captains bark orders, harsh voices echoing across the base like dogs. The French army has been decimated, but here are the people who have not given up. Beatrice can see the resistance forming, white hot and sharp. She imagines what they can do. The occupying Nazis may think themselves comfortable, lounging in the richest homes of the richest towns. But there is something about being on the very bottom of the ladder that fills a person with hatred.

Beatrice is crouched over her notes in the dining tent. She scribbles long, complicated German words, muttering in English and French variants. She knows that she cannot take these notes with her, lest someone finds them, but it is still better to practise here than not at all. She makes small cards, and Claudette tests her memory on the words she does not know. She paces around and sings the little exercises she has learn under her breath. Is it enough?

It isn’t until seven o’clock that, as the sun begins its ten billionth descent, that Beatrice finds herself outside of the little brick building again. Herbert has foregone his uniform is lieu of more conspicuous clothing. Beatrice carries her briefcase, now her only belongings. Everything else that she owned has been lost or destroyed. The only things that she has brought across the Channel are her burnt hands and aging crucifix. And a photo, small and wrinkled, tucked into her pocket.

Claudette wraps a long arm around Beatrice’s shoulders. “Stay safe.” she says. “And good luck.”

Herbert starts up the car engine. With that final wave, one that leaves Beatrice feels empty, she slides into the front seat. It is Cambridge all over again.

The Malmedy train station, much to Beatrice’s amusement, is not in Malmedy. It is ten minutes out of town, which seems a little counter-productive. It is a tiny station, so much so that Herbert very nearly misses it and drives by altogether. There is only one platform, and a nearly empty one at that. The crumbling concrete is entwined with dark ivy, and large cracks run across the old stones. A leaning structure that may have once been considered a shelter stands to the rear of the platform, the roof caved in and rotting. Only three people wait there; an old woman clutching a purse, a young Nazi soldier with a sling, and a middle aged man in a long coat.

Beatrice and Herbert parked next to the station, and huddle just out of sight.

“That’s him I assume?” Beatrice whispers, looking at the man.

“Yes, that’s him.” Herbert’s voice drips with sarcasm, as if Beatrice has asked him a stupid question.

Eugen Konrad stands proudly at the front of the platform, a small trunk at his feet. He is more than a foot taller than Beatrice, but that is not a difficult achievement. His angular face is cast into shadow by the hat that covers his dark hair. The Nazi that is at his back does not appear to both him in the slightest, but Beatrice knows that he has lived among them for years. Will she become as used to them as he is?

“Here’s your ticket.” Herbert pushes a slip of paper into Beatrice’s hand. “Don’t lose it.”

“Sage wisdom.” says Beatrice. “Is that all?”

“I believe so.” he says. “Now hurry up, the train will be here soon.”

Beatrice does not give him a goodbye. Eager to be away from him as soon as possible, she picks up her bags and climbs the stairs to the platform. Konrad glances over as she walk towards him. Both of them force smiles onto their faces.

“Lange nicht gesehen.” he says. He wraps on arm around Beatrice’s shoulders and leans in as if to kiss her on the forehead. Instead, his lips don’t touch her.

“We’ll talk more on the train.” he whispers. Beatrice nods, and he pulls away.

She does not know what to say after that. There is little they can talk about without being overheard by others. They stand in silence until the train puffs into the station. It is a clean, dark grey machine, so gleaming and modern in comparison to the crumbling platform. A city train, expensive and powerful. Its huge wheels screech horribly along the tracks as smoke pours from the chimney. A shrill whistle blows; the doors creak open. Beatrice and Konrad flash their tickets at the conductor and step on board.

Beatrice looks longing out of the window as the platform disappears behind her. She feels as if she is standing knee-deep in the ocean, feeling the tide go out around her, feeling the slip of the sand under her feet as it rushes back out with the current.

Their cabin is tiny, but Beatrice much prefers it to having to share an open space. There is a large window on the far side that looks out towards the blurred countryside. The seats are long and covered with dark blue cushions, and there are long shelves above their heads to hold their bags. A small table sits in between them, and a single hanging bulb glows feebly overhead. It smells of floor polish and dry fabric, and the air is stagnant.

Beatrice stows her trunk away. The conductor checks through every cabin, ordering for the curtains to be drawn as the lights are switched on. Even a civilian train is a target for Allied bombers. Beatrice has never thought that she would be afraid of her own army, her own brothers battalion. What is the likelihood that he will one day drop explosives above her, maim her, kill her? She does not want to think about it.

“Now keep in mind,” says Konrad. “That we will probably have to stop at the border to get our papers checked and such. You do have papers, don’t you?”

“Of course.” says Beatrice. “Forged papers, but they’re decent.”

“May I?”

Beatrice fishes the papers out of her bag and hands them over. Konrad looks over them over, comparing them against his own. Beads of sweat are beginning to form on Beatrice’s skin. Finally, he gives them back.

“Someone’s good with a pencil.” he says. “Nothing to worry about then, I suppose.”

Beatrice slides the papers back into her bag, hoping fervently that she won’t have to show them again.

“Let’s settle one thing before we reach Germany.” says Konrad. “Outside of the house, even if we’re alone, we speak German or French. Over the phone, German or French. Letters—”

“German or French, yes, I get it.” says Beatrice. “And if it’s just us at home?”

“Then you may speak as much English as your little British heart desires.” he says, grinning slightly. “I’m learning you see, so the more the better.”

Konrad pauses as another passenger passes by. He waits a moment as the footsteps fall away.

“And another thing,” he says, voice still low and his eyes on the door. “I’m not operating under an alias; you can know as much about me as I’m comfortable with. But, and this is for both of our sakes, I don’t want to know anything about you. I don’t even want to know so much as your mother’s maiden name.”

“Why?”

“Well, if the Gestapo are threatening to pull my fingernails off,” he says. “I’d rather not give away the names of innocent people.”

Beatrice shudders. “You make it sound as if we’re going to get caught.”

Konrad glances towards the door. Realising that the corridor is empty, he leans forward and speaks in a hushed voice.

“If I’m being honest with you,” he says. “This is a suicide mission. The Nazis are ruthless. If they get one whiff of tea and scones, they will pounce.”

Beatrice bites her lip, her leg bounces up and down. ‘Do this Beatrice, don’t do this Beatrice.’ she thinks. “And remember, if you fuck up, you’ll be shot! If you refuse, you’ll be shot! If you try to escape, you’ll be shot! Isn’t that fun?’

Late hour notwithstanding, Beatrice does not fall asleep. Instead she lays in wait of the German border, and the fear of what will happen when they come to a stop. The possibilities are endless.

When the train comes to a screeching halt after an hour, she cannot help but get to her feet and peer through the curtains. What she is looking for, she does not know. Soldiers? Germans? Guns? All she can see is a forest, empty and dark.

“Sit down, kleyntshik.”

Beatrice jumps. She thought that Konrad was asleep. She falls back into her seat, heart pounding. She can hear the train doors being thrown open, booted feet moving up and down the corridor, cabin doors sliding across their guides. It feels as if there is a bomb sitting in Beatrice’s bag rather than a small wad of papers.

Two minutes go by. Then a figure passes in front of the door. It slides open to reveal a man in a dark grey uniform; a Nazi border inspector.

“Papers.” he says curtly. Konrad goes first, and offers the soldier his ID. The soldier flicks through the little booklet. He sneers, looking at the papers as if they have been smeared with mud, then snaps it shut. His face falls slightly, as if he is disappointed at having found nothing of consequence.

“Your papers, Fraulein.” he says.

Fight back the trembling in her hands, Beatrice passes them over. It feels like hours. The soldier scans every detail, every inch of the paper. Is the ink too bright? Is the photo askew? Something is wrong, his brow is furrowing, his eyes are darting backwards and forth.

“Fraulein?”

Beatrice looks up sharply. Her nails dig into the soft skin of her palm. The man is studying the booklet closely, creases appearing around his eyes.

“Would you confirm the spelling of your name for me?” he asks.

Beatrice frowns. What is wrong with her name?

“M-A-G-D-A-L-E-N.” she says.

“No ‘E’ on the end?”

“No.”

The soldier huffs. He closes the book and drops it onto the table unceremoniously. Beatrice holds in her sigh of relief.

“Very well.” he says. “My apologies for the intrusion.”

Beatrice waits until she hears the next cabin door opening before letting out that sigh. She lets her head loll back against the chair and grins wearily.

“Saint Peter.” she breathes. “I think my heart’s about to burst out of my chest.”

Konrad sniggers. He produces a tiny green bottle from his pocket and pulls the cork off with a pleasant sounding pop.

“Here’s to bullshitting your way into Germany.” he says, raising the bottle in toast. “God save the king, and all that.”

He takes a swig, giving a satisfied gasp, and wipes the bottle with his sleeve. He offers it out to Beatrice. Ordinarily, she does not drink. Someone of her size is so easily bowled over by the tiniest sips of alcohol, even if it is delicious. But bluffing her way into a country is a special occasion that calls for alcohol. She raises the bottle to her lips, stopping only to smell it. It is pungent, strong. She takes a sip. It pinches at the back of her throat, a sharp sort of tickle.

“Good save the bloody king indeed.” she splutters. “Christ man, what’d you pun in that?”

“Vodka.” Konrad says proudly. “Imported directly from Moscow. Not a drinker?”

Beatrice coughs through a laugh. “Not when you give me straight alcohol. You are though, clearly.”

“I’m carrying a travel sized bottle of vodka around in my pocket. You tell me.”

Beatrice has switched off the cabin light to let Konrad sleep, and pulled back the curtains just enough to watch the world go by. She once thought that there is no colour darker than black. But the countryside, now German instead of Belgian, grows in darkness as the hours tick by. The shadows seem to suck all of the light from the outside world. The few villages that they pass by are dark, their windows covered by blackout curtains. They pass through a city that Beatrice thinks is Dusseldorf, and the only light is the glimmer of cheating headlights.

It is eerily still when they are not in the city. There isn’t a single sound. Only the puffing of the train, the chug of the engine, and the piercing squeal of the tracks below can be heard. Konrad really has fallen asleep this time, the bottle of vodka empty on the table. Beatrice has found a pack of playing cards buried at the bottom of her bag, along with a Bible and two other books in German. The cards are spread over the table in a poor attempt at solitaire. Beatrice never has been one for card games.

Her heart jolts as she sees the shadows in the distance. Tall buildings, and just a hint of synthetic light. In the slowly rising sun the city appears as grey and misty, but it clears quickly as they wind ever closer. Berlin at long last.

Beatrice’s appeal for the city diminishes as they get closer to their destination. The elegant Victorian style buildings are laced with reminders of the regime. Just as the train begins to descend into the U-Bahn, Beatrice catches a glimpse of the side of a building plastered with swastikas, propaganda posters, and the distance glare of a bright red flag. The cabin seems to glow red for a moment; a shadowy figure that is like a cross but so very different falls over it—

Then they pass into the tunnel, and the cabin goes dark.

Konrad snorts awake, sitting up as straight as a ruler. Beatrice’s discarded solitaire game goes flying, and turns into a sea of cards as he wakes himself up.

“If we’re not in Berlin by now, I’m going to throw myself onto the tracks and walk,” he groans, stretching his arms out.

“We’ve just arrived.” says Beatrice, grumpily gathering up the cards. Her mind still lingers on the glower of the swastika that had fallen over their cabin. “I’ve just realised how terrible coming here was.”

Every few seconds, an electric fizzing fills her stomach. She clutches her hands together, takes a breath, and tries to relax. As soon as the fizzing goes away, it comes straight back.

Beatrice stares out of the window as the train eases to a halt. The platform outside is underground. The walls and floor are made of the same drab brown bricks, and the lights hanging from the ceiling cast a dull, yellow, flickering light. Signs in thick black writing cover the walls. They point to other stations, the streets above, and the arrival times of trains.

A group of soldiers in proud crisp uniforms are perched on the seats outside, bags and guns thrown over their shoulders. Conductors pulls open the doors; a whistle blows shrilly. The platform is freezing, and cold air from the roads above blows down the stairs and swirls around Beatrice’s feet like the ocean lapping at the coast line. An officer walks by the soldiers, and they all salute one another. A man tips his hat as he walks by. This is the city. This is Berlin.

Beatrice shivers and trots after Konrad. She hopes that it isn’t long until she can curl up under a blanket, and make a strong cup of tea. Alas, before they can get home, there is another train to be caught. They speed under the streets of Berlin without a single word passing between them. Beatrice can only imagine the thousands of feet, cars, and tonnes of brick that are passing over her head. Streets full of soldiers, streets full of Nazis, streets where this godforsaken war had been born.

When it finally comes to their stop, the sun has just risen. The roads are wound with mist and dew; they are barren and quiet. Not even the birds sing for fear of breaking the silence.

Konrad’s house is easily one of the biggest and grandest that Beatrice has ever seen. He informs her that they are on the edge of Charlottenburg, one of the richest boroughs in Berlin, and that his house is not even the most luxurious. But it is luxurious enough for Beatrice. It reminds her faintly of her boarding school in London, only prettier. It is three stories high, and built from pale sandstone that shines in the sunlight. Intricate engravements encircle the frosty windows, high doorframes, the corners of the house, and anywhere else the architect has deemed pleas. The windows are tall and thin, and many of their sills are laden with flowering green, white, and purple plants. Balconies made from smooth, dark metal run along the top floor, covered with more plants still.

“Not bad.” Beatrice thinks.

The interior of Konrad’s home is dark, yet comfortably warm and well-furnished. The sitting room window, which takes up a good deal of the first floor, has a beautiful view over the foggy street. A piano, polished to a bright gleam, sits in the corner and catches Beatrice’s eye immediately. The pale red couches are covered with cushions, a matching bouquet of crimson tulips resting in the centre of the coffee table. To the rear of the room there is a long, thin kitchen with spotless countertops and a whole manner of appliances that Beatrice has never had the privilege to use. A small hallway leads away from the room, a staircase at the darkened end.

“This place must cost you a small fortune.” she says. “How on earth do you pay for it?”

“My grandparents left me the money for it.” says Konrad. “And businessmen don’t make poor money either.”

Beatrice runs her hand over the back of the couch. The fabric is soft and malleable, a place where one could easily fall asleep without even realising.

As if the couch is reminding her, Beatrice cannot help the yawn that escapes her throat. Konrad mimes smacking himself in the head.

“God, you must be exhausted.” he says. “Come on kleyntshik, I’ll show you to your room.”

The staircase is dark and winding. Beatrice enlists Konrad’s help in carrying her trunk; no easy task after a night on the train. The second floor landing serves as a wonderful break for the exhausted pair, but they’ve still got another round to go. Once they get to the top, Beatrice opts to simply drag the bloody thing across the ground.

“Why does your house have to have so many floors?” she pants.

“For the aesthetic, of course.” says Konrad. “Two floors is just too small.”

Beatrice thinks of her house in Buntingford. There, she’d shared a room with her sisters, while her brothers had shared another. Aside from their bedroom, their house only had a cramped kitchen, sitting room, and one bathroom for seven people. Luxuries like pianos, ensuites, and private bedroom were once a faraway dream that Beatrice never had until now.

Her new bedroom is at the end of the hallway on the third floor. It is larger than her room in Buntingford, larger even than her old sitting room. A large bed with plush white blankets stands in the middle of the room, a soft, pale green throw blanket over the end. Two bedside tables with matching lampshades stand on either side, a tall and elegant wardrobe of the wall beside the door. Across the room, two glass doors lead out onto a small balcony that overlooks the cold street.

“There’s a bathroom through here as well.” Konrad opens a door to reveal a small but sparkling bathroom.

“Make yourself at home.” he says. “You can help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen. My room is off limits.”

“I wasn’t planning on going in there.”

“Just making sure.” With a cheeky smile, Konrad closes the door. The room goes silent.

Beatrice pushes her trunk into the corner; she will unpack it later. Rather than undressing and sliding into bed, she crosses the room and walks out onto the balcony. The early morning air bites at her exposed arms and face. The houses across the street hold the same sort or grandeur as Konrad’s. They are just as tall, just as clean. Just as untouched by war. Goosebumps run up and down her arms. On the window opposite, almost directly from her, there is a flag hanging from the sill. She closes the balcony doors quickly and pulls the curtains shut behind her. There will be more of those flags all over Berlin. Flags that she knows that she cannot ignore.

Pushing the thought of it aside, she decides that a warm shadow will clear her mind. She is surprised to find the bathroom fully stocked. Shampoo and conditioner, lavender soap, a sweet and flowery perfume. Even a small pot with two tubes of toothpaste and a toothbrush have been carefully positioned on the small shelf.

The shower is the first that Beatrice has taken since Monday, the day before the bombing. It is now Thursday morning. The water trickles from the showerhead, the pressure reduced so as not to be wasteful. But it is enough, and it is hot. It coaxes the stiffness from Beatrice’s joints and skin. She watches as the past days of blood and dirt are swept from her skin. She never realised just how much of Mikhail’s blood is underneath her fingers.

She dresses in the softest pyjamas that she can find. Faint singing comes from far away, lulling her to sleep. In her exhaustion, the words are meaningless.

“Vorwärts! Vorwärts! Schmettern die hellen Fanfaren…”


	5. A Day at the Office

In the few days between arriving in Germany and her first day or work, Beatrice pours over the German to English dictionaries in Konrad’s study. Her hands ache from the hundreds upon hundreds of notes that she writes. Pages full of jet black ink are beginning to stack up on the table until Konrad barks at her to move them. She fills her head with reminders of the frustratingly categorised German language, its unnecessary logic and rules. She finds herself forgetting the words for English, and even begins to insert similar German words into her mother tongue, much to Konrad’s amusement.”

“As funny as it is.” he says. “Somehow, I don’t think that Adenauer will enjoy it as much.”

Monday morning, while warm and airy, sends shivers down Beatrice’s arms. She dresses in the sort of clothes a secretary might wear. A dark red skirt that comes to her knees, a white blouse with a pointed collar, and short brown heels with her only pair of tights. It is not what Beatrice usually wears. She much prefers brighter, louder colours, rounded collars, and flats instead of heels; far easier to chase Albert with when he steals her things. Reluctantly she pulls on her coat, slings her handbag over her shoulder, and bids Konrad farewell. She cannot help but think about whether she will see him again that evening. The Gestapo might get to her first.

Not once since Thursday has she gone outside. She could not bring herself to. The idea of seeing Berlin, seeing more than just the city itself, terrifies her. Swastikas, soldiers, marching, the war from the eyes of the Other. She is in the heart of the Nazi war machine. It is the last thing that any eighteen year old can believe will happen to them.

Even walking to the U-Bahn is a petrifying adventure. Painfully red banners hand from window sills, glare from the armbands of soldiers, swing from flag poles. Cocky Hitler Youth boy giggle and chatter amongst themselves, swapping cigarettes and stories. Some of them are bold enough to whistle as Beatrice walk by, and she can just muster enough strength for these harmless children so that she can glower at them, and watch their faces fall.

The middle of Berlin is a sea of war. Red. Soldiers. Nazis. Everywhere Beatrice looks, it swarms like a hive of bees agitated by the poke of a stick. She can scarcely walk in a straight line for fear that she will be stung. She forces herself to look at the ground and walk on.

Looking around for the propaganda ministry, Beatrice’s gaze lands on an elegant building, tall and proud. It is three stories high, and made from dark marble. Every window is aligned, each stone has been perfectly laid. A ginormous bronze eagle is suspended above the long, flat stairs. Its dark eyes scowl down at the street, and the short Brit looking back up. Two soldiers stand in line with the marble columns, as tall as the eagle over their heads. Beatrice realises what building it is. The Reich Chancellery.

Hitler could be sitting just a few hundred feet away.

Beatrice shakes her head and keeps walking. “Not important,” she thinks. “Don’t get distracted Wilson, it’s a bad habit.”

The propaganda ministry, the Ordenspalais, is much the same sort of building, but falls short of grandeur in the shadow of the Chancellery. It is only two stories, ashen grey, and pushed away from the road. A stone courtyard fills the gap, nearly empty, and covered by an early morning fog. It is devoid of any remarkable features, bar a mossy statue in the centre. Atop a flag pole, the swastika flutters weakly.

As she crosses the courtyard Beatrice thinks of her posture, her gait. Is she walking too fast? Too slow? Does she look suspicious? Is she staring too much?

She climbs the stairs past the soldiers, heart beating ferociously. They make no movement towards her. Beatrice gives a tiny sigh of relief as she enters the cool, dark building. And, only for a brief moment, a miniscule smile of pride crosses her face.

It is surprisingly quiet inside considering that the work day is beginning. The foyer, while the perfect vessel for noise, carries little sound. The only voices to be heard are that of a young man and woman on the other side of the room. They stand close together, and their hands are linked. The woman looks up at hearing Beatrice’s heels on the dark tiles.

“Um…hello,” says Beatrice, who remembers at the last second that she is supposed to be speaking German. “Could you tell me where the secretary’s office for Minister Adenauer is?”

“Oh, I was just on my way there.” says the woman. She turns to the man. “I’ll see you tonight I suppose.”

“Have a good day.”

The woman smiles dreamily after the man until he disappears from view. Beatrice feels more and more awkward by the second.

“You…like him?” she says, wary of her own voice.

The woman giggles. “He’s my husband. It’s our first day back since our honeymoon.”

“Congratulations.” says Beatrice. “I’m Magdalen by the way. Lena if you’d like.”

“Rosalind.”

Rosalind is taller than Beatrice by a long way, nearly an entire head. She is a large woman, with blonde curls to match. She has a wide, friendly face, strong perfume, and bright red cheeks. She walks with Beatrice to the office, babbling all the while.

“Lucky Adenauer hasn’t arrived yet.” she says. “I’ll have time to introduce you to everyone. I’m warning you now, he’s nice enough, but…well, you’ll see.”

“Wonderful.” Beatrice mutters, to which Rosalind giggles again.

There are six other secretaries, and Beatrice meets them all. Erika, Liesl, Sabine, Veronika, Hedda, and Charlotte. Of course, each of them are taller than Beatrice, and just as pale. All but two have blue eyes, and all but one have blonde hair.

Beatrice sits down at her empty desk. A small package sits beside the typewriter, her name written across it in tall, narrow handwriting.

“Notebooks, probably.” says Rosalind, who settles into her own chair. “Pens, paper, that sort of thing. And a calendar too, do not lose that. It’ll be full before the day is out—”

The door to the office swings open. The women jump to their feet and salute. Beatrice is one beat behind, and her salute is half-hearted. Her hand is shaking; her fingers are burning. She holds her breath until her arm is at her side again.

“Morning ladies. Schedule Hedda? Thank you.”

It is Adenauer. Beatrice knows from his dossier that he is a pale and dark-haired man, but up close he is vampiric.

“Working Frau Muller, not fixing your hair.” Adenauer says sternly as he strides by. “And you. New secretary?”

Beatrice looks up. He is talking to her.

“Y…yes sir.” she says. “Magdalen Baumann.”

“Pleasure.” he says, though he hardly looks pleased. “We’ll talk in my office in…ten minutes. I’ll let you settle in.”

“Yes sir.”

It isn’t until Adenauer’s footsteps have faded away, and his office door has clicked shut that Beatrice feels her heart rate slow to a normal pace. She has just spoken, actually spoken, to one of the most disgustingly important men in the Reich. And she hadn’t gotten herself killed doing it.

“I think he likes you.” says Rosalind.”

“Pfft.” Beatrice shakes her head. “I think not. Was he in a good mood, do you know?”

“Better than normal.”

Beatrice turns her focus back to the package on her desk to distract her from the unpleasant encounter. Beneath the brown paper, there is a stack of ringed notebooks, a box of pens, spare nibs, and a calendar small enough to fit into her hand bag.

The ten minutes go by quickly. With an encouraging nod from Rosalind, Beatrice prepares herself for a second encounter with Adenauer. Her resolve wavers only slightly as she raises her first and knocks at the door.

Adenauer’s office is wide and high ceilinged, with tall windows at the far end that let in long rays of sunshine, spilling over the floorboards like golden snow. One wall is dedicated to a row of bookshelves, thick volumes in dark covers. The desk is neatly organised, with a large globe to one side. It smells of polished furniture, and old, wilted papers that have been left out in the elements. Adenauer does not look up as Beatrice enters.

“Have a seat.” he says, jabbing his pen at the chair. “Watch the papers.”

Beatrice is grateful to sit; her legs are shaking so much; she is worried that she will drop to the floor. It is all she can do to stop herself from falling into the chair rather than lowering herself gently.

“You found your way here this morning easily enough? he asks, finally looking up at her. “Berlin can be confusing for newcomers.”

“No sir. I found it easily.”

“Good.” He gives her a small and unsettling smile before ploughing on. “Now, we spoke on the phone already about your placement here—”

Beatrice thinks of the poor agent who would have spoken on the phone pretending to be her. She makes a mental note to look her up should she ever make it back to England, and send her a bouquet of condolence flowers.

“—two year contract, weekly pay of thirty-five Reichsmarks,” he says. “Eight thirty until seven o’clock workday, all standard conditions. It’s your specific duties here that I want to discuss.”

Already, Beatrice is in over her head. Even at Adenauer’s word, she has no idea if she is being paid too much or too little, no idea of how bearable her hours are; no idea of how to be a secretary.

“First and foremost,” says Adenauer. “The propaganda ministry and its divisions are a loyal branch of the German government. Our media outlets only deliver the news that the people need to hear. Anything that conflicts with our laws and beliefs is not only a stain on this establishment, but illegal. And the same standards are applied to our families. This includes familial ties.”

From a neat folder on his desk, Adenauer withdraws two pages. He slides them both across the desk, along with a pen.

“You’ll remember that the family relations form could not be filled out over the phone for privacy reasons.” he says. “You’ll need to fill this out before we can continue—”

The office door opens sharply. A secretary, Beatrice thinks her name is Hedda, stands there, with a tall man waiting patiently behind her.

“I’m sorry sir, but he insisted.” says the secretary. “He said that it’s urgent.”

Adenauer scowls and leans back in his chair. There is a pregnant pause as he weighs his options. He looks from the new girl, to the secretary, to his visitor. He sighs.

“Fine.” he says. “That will be all Fraulein Richter.”

“Sir.”

As Hedda disappears back into the secretary’s office, Adenauer fixes the tall intruder with a focussed glare. Beatrice looks between them.

“Should…should I go?” she asks nervously.

“Not yet, Fraulein Baumann.” he says.

The stranger is gaunt, yet not quite enough to be unhealthy. His features, high cheekbones and a long nose, might have been handsome as a young man, but the years have begun to take their toll. He cannot be a day younger than fifty. There are dark circles under his eyes. His dark suit is neat and smooth, and not a hair on his head is out of place.

“General.” he says. “I’m glad to see you out of hospital, but I’m quite busy.”

“My apologies.” says the newcomer, giving a rueful smile. ‘But I’m afraid that it is urgent. Miss Baumann, would you give us a moment?”

Beatrice looks back to Adenauer. “I…I suppose it’s up to you, sir.”

Adenauer taps his fingers in a spider-like manner. “Yes, alright.” he spits out. “If it’s so important. In the meantime Fraulein Baumann, I’m expecting a letter from Dr Goebbels. Go and pick it up for me.”

Beatrice’s face goes white. “From…Dr Goebbels, sir?”

“Yes dear, from Dr Goebbels.” says Adenauer. “I promise he doesn’t bite. Go on.”

“Yes sir.”

Adenauer’s attention has already returned to the man. Beatrice shudders in relief as she closes the door.

The image of the little Nazi doctor flashes through her mind as she makes her way towards his office on the second floor. She had been hoping that she will not stumble across anyone much higher up than Adenauer. But Goebbels…Goebbels is at the top of the hierarchy.

The secretary that leads her through the halls to his office babbles in rapid-fire German the entire time. She passes out folders and notes as she rushes by other workers. The atmosphere up here is much different. It is chaotic, it is energetic. It is dangerous. Beatrice can hardly keep up, and she scarcely understands the woman’s thick Bavarian dialect.

The secretary knocks at a tall set of double doors. For the first time since Beatrice has met her, the woman stands still as she waits for an answer.

“Come in.”

The secretary cracks open the door just wide enough so that she can fit her shoulders through. “One of Adenauer’s secretaries for you, sir.”

Without waiting for a response, the woman all but shoves Beatrice inside and disappears into the mass of offices and hallways. Beatrice is left frozen in the doorway.

The phrase ‘you can hear a pin drop’ does not suffice. Goebbels has his head down, scribbling furiously and splattering ink across the paper. He does not speak as Beatrice takes a shuffling step into the room. This is one of the last people any British teenager would dare to dream of coming across.

“A…Adenauer is asking for a letter from you.” Beatrice stutters. “Sir.”

“I haven’t written it.”

Beatrice draws a sharp breath. She does not know whether she should push for the letter, or to accept it and leave now. Then she remembers Rosalind’s warning of his temper, and she decides that she would rather not face that quite so soon.

“Sir, he was quite…adamant about it.”

“And I’m quite adamant that I haven’t written it.” says Goebbels, still writing. “You can tell him that he needs to give me more than a day to plan my response before he sends his secretaries barging in here asking for letters.”

“I wasn’t aware I was barging.”

Goebbels stops writing. He looks up. And that is how Beatrice finds herself being glared at by the most vicious man in the Third Reich. A tiny parasite with enough venom to raze a city to the ground. She realises with a start that she has spoken aloud, and swears under her breath.

The minister lays his pen down softly. “Tell Adenauer,” he says quietly. “That he can send you back up at ten o’clock sharp, and I’ll have it written.

“Yes sir.”

“Out.”

“Yes sir.”

She shuts the door in a hurry. Just like that, she’s in and out. The ordeal runs over and over again like a broken record, tumbling around in her mind and scratching at its insides.

Downstairs, Beatrice slumps at her desk. She has only been at work for twenty minutes, and already is has been up, down, collect this, go here, talk to him, talk to her, be careful with the boss, and do it now. Beatrice wants nothing more than a cup of tea. Even coffee would be bearable at a time like this.

No, that’s a lie. No coffee.

“You left this in Adenauer’s office.” says Rosalind. She holds out Beatrice’s handbag. Beatrice mentally smacks herself over the head.

Still untrusting of the office, Adenauer in particular, Beatrice rustles through her bag. Purse, lipstick, envelope—

Envelope?

Her alias is splashed across the front in the most elegant, looped, gorgeous handwriting that Beatrice has ever seen. Tentative, she pulls it open and reads the contents.

Miss Baumann

Be at my office in half an hour, Wilhelmstrasse 8. Don’t make me wait. Tell the doorman that the general sent for you.

-An acquaintance

Beatrice’s hands shake violently as she scrambles through her handbag. Purse, lipstick, house keys. Purse, lipstick, house keys. Purse, lipstick, house keys—

ID papers?

No ID papers.

They’re gone.  


When Beatrice goes to Adenauer to ask to be excused for the morning, dread is the only emotion that she is familiar with. So when he tells her that he has been ordered to let her off for the next hour, a tiny pinprick of relief sparks in her mind. She does not need to bargain with him. But a pinprick is still a pinprick. Now she is free to be interrogated without question or hope of being saved.

Beatrice has her suspicions as to who she is about to meet. The only people who have had access to her handbag have been Adenauer and his visitor. The real question is not who. It is why.

The buildings that pass by Beatrice are blurred together in her state of racing thoughts. Berlin is bigger than her home town by a hundredfold, and her papers are worth less than a grain of sand in the grand scheme of this vast world. It is likely that she same man who has left her this note is the very same as whoever has taken her papers. But still, they are not glued to one another. There are still a million and one places that they could be. That’s assuming that they are still in one piece.

When she reaches the office at Wilhelmstrasse 8, she allows the sheer presence of the building to sweep over her. It is shaped like a ‘U’, the walls built from smooth and elegant white marble. Tall windows and dark curtains dot these walls, and ivy creeps over the large bricks that are in shadow. Soldiers parade and guffaw in the courtyard as officers strut by, ugly faces turned upwards in sneers, as if they are the Fuhrer himself. In a dark skirt and heels, Beatrice cannot feel any more out of place. She is a bird that has been thrown in the ocean and told to swim. She feels the cockier of the soldiers leer at her as she walks past. The officers either scowl or watch her carefully. There are no women in this courtyard.

As she approaches the front door, a soldier steps out in front of her. “Can I help you Fraulein?”

“I…I have a meeting with the general,” she says quickly, fingers wrapping around the note in her pocket.

The soldier pulls a small book from his pocket. “Name?”

“Magdalen Baumann.”

A silent moment passes as the soldier scans the pages. There is a minute where Beatrice does not think that her name will be on the list, a minute where she does not think that she will be allowed inside. A minute where she won’t have to face the beast, but the beast will hunt her down all the same—

“Here it is.” The soldier snaps the book shut and slips it back into his pocket. “Follow me.”

Slits of cold light fall through the windowed halls of the office. In the long stretches between each window, darkness consumes the hallway, and Beatrice allows herself a brief moment to shiver without being seen. There is no plush carpet here to mask the uncomfortably loud clicking of Beatrice’s heels. It is the only sound, and she knows that whoever is waiting for her will hear her coming from a mile away.

“Maybe that’s the point.” Beatrice thinks.

The soldier stops short at a dark door. He knocks sharply.

“Yes?”

The first thing to hit Beatrice is the temperature of the office. Sweltering. It is freezing outside, even with the sun shining, but in here it is like a furnace. She feels her skin crawl with warmth, and she longs to take off her coat.

The sunshine that does little to provide any heat to the outside world lights the room; no lamps hang from the walls or ceiling. The fireplace is empty, which does not explain the strange heat. Bookshelves stretch all the way to the ceiling, crammed with dozens upon dozens of volumes. Beatrice can see everything from history to mathematics, to medicine, to law, and even fiction books.

The door shuts behind her. She is trapped.

There is a dark wooden desk in the middle of the room, and Adenauer’s visitor sits behind it. He makes a show of looking down at his watch, flicking back his cuff, and inspecting the tiny hands that spin and click at his wrist.

“Twenty-eight minutes, and four seconds.” he muses. “I was beginning to worry that you weren’t going to show up.”

Slowly, with the gaze of an animal that knows it has caught its prey, the man allows himself a tiny smile.

“I’ve not properly introduced myself.” he stands, standing up and strolling towards Beatrice. “General Bohm.”

Beatrice gingerly shakes his hand. His fingers are gaunt and cold.

“Magdalen Baumann.” she says.

“We’ve met already, haven’t we?” he says. But it is not a question. Beatrice can tell by the knowing, proud tone of his quiet voice that any question this man asks is either rhetorical or scathing. He is still holding her hand, and his grip is tight. Not enough to be painful, but too much to slip away.

“We…have?” she asks.

Bohm lets his smile fall away. He is already tired of playing the façade with this tiny slip of a girl. “You think I wouldn’t recognise you?”

The confusion that crosses Beatrice’s face is not an act, but genuine. Her eyebrows knit together as she studies the general’s face. She has never seen him before; she is sure of it.

“I honestly don’t believe that we’ve met.” she says. “I feel like I would recognise you if we had.”

Beatrice winces as Bohm’s nails momentarily cut into her skin. She can feel the shadow of his tall frame being thrown over her. She refuses to look at him. She cannot bring herself to. He is too close. Too quiet.

Bohm’s fingers move from her hand to her back, skating along her arm. With his hand against her shoulder, he walks her to the chair in front of his desk, nudging for her to sit. Rather than returning to his seat on the other side, he crosses his arms and leans against the wood. The tips of his polished boots touch Beatrice’s. He stare is akin to that of a hunter. And he knows it too.

“What happened to your hands?”

Beatrice looks down at her palms. She had taken off the bandages before coming into work, and the burns had already begun to heal over. The scars are still there though. White and puffy blisters make a lattice across her skin, tiny criss-crosses of white and pink.

“A…a cooking accident.” she says with a nervous laugh. “I’m no chef.”

“What were you cooking?”

“Biscuits.” she says. “I grab the tray and forgot to put a glove on.”

Bohm chuckles. Even though the story is a lie, Beatrice’s cheeks go red.

“I’m not laughing at you, Miss Baumann.” he says, noticing her flushed face. “We all do foolish things.”

Beatrice does not doubt for a second that Bohm believes her in the slightest. Something twitching in the way that his eyes skate over her hands tells her this. But the lie does not seem to matter to him in the slightest. He reaches behind to his desk and picks up a small stack of beige papers. It takes only a moment for Beatrice to realise that it is her ID booklet. She stiffens and resists the urge to reach out and snatch it from Bohm’s spidery fingers. It is so close, so very, very close, but also so very far away.

As a general, Bohm knows how to keep a smile from his face, how to play the part of an impartial soldier. But he is enjoying himself too much, sporting with the poor girl, leaving her wondering on the end of her puppet strings. He sees how she longs to take the booklet back and flee from the office. But instead of handing it over to her, he opens it.

“Magdalen Hedwig Baumann.” he reads aloud. “No E on the end, born in Munich…oh look, we share a birthday. Twelfth of February. Funny how small the world can be.”

His eyes dart to the page that Beatrice knows contains her family records. She knows that it is pointless to pray that he will not question her about it. The contents are too intriguing for any authority figure not to.

“Your parents,” he says slowly. “They’re…dead?”

“Yes.”

“So you’ve lived with your fathers brother in Paris.” says Bohm, his fingers skimming the paper. “Then moved here to live with your mothers brother, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

The booklet snaps against Beatrice’s cheek. All coherent thought drains like water in a sink. Bohm leans forwards, his legs pressing against hers, and his hands gripping the arm rests of the chair. Beatrice pushes herself into the back of the chair and clamps her mouth shut to stifle a gasp.

“Where did you get this?” he asks. He holds the book up.

Beatrice’s voice is a whisper. “It…it’s mine.”

She squeaks as Bohm grabs her jaw and turns her chin up. His patience has been cut short; he does not have time to debate loyalties with a civilian. His long face is drawn into a snarl, his eyes burning with a ferocity that makes Beatrice want to sink into the ground. A finger rests against her throat, and he can feel her pulse beneath it. Fast and strong.

“We met in France.” he says, voice dropping to a dangerously low baritone. “Do you remember? You were travelling with that Russian boy.”

Beatrice feels panic flood her stomach. Mikhail. The forest. The soldiers.

The officer.

It all comes back to her. His angular frame, his deep voice, his unassailable height. He stood over her then, and he stands over her now. He is alive.

“Do you remember shooting me?” he spits. “Stealing my own gun and shooting me in the stomach. You little coward; do you remember that?”

Beatrice remembers. Only flashes of that night still live in her mind, but she remembers all the same. The feeling of Bohm’s blood dripping down her leg, the leaves crunching underfoot as she ran, gunshots echoing through the trees. The bodies. The gunshot. Him.

And Mikhail. Dead, frozen Mikhail. Wailing and covered in his own blood, left to waste away where no one will find him…

“Listen to me, Miss Baumann.” he says slowly. “Carefully. I will offer you a deal, and I will explain it only once. Do you understand?”

Bohm digs his fingernails in until Beatrice nods.

“I am not going to arrest you.” he says. “Because you are Adenauer’s. And being Adenauer’s makes you Goebbels’. If I take a pawn from their side of the board, I upset them, and as…deplorably petty the two of them are, they do have their uses from day to day. Now like most people, I do enjoy having allies on my side should I ever find myself in trouble, not that it occurs all that often, and the last thing I want is to distance myself from them for the sake of some traitorous little harlot.”

He squeezes her jaw. “Yes sir?”

“Yes sir.”

Bohm drops the booklet into her lap, but keeps a hold on her chin. “Contrary to popular belief, I can be lenient. Behaviour permitting.”

Beatrice feels herself flinch. “Behaviour permitting?” she whispers.

“Do what you spies do best.” says Bohm. “Lie. Convince the rest of Berlin that you’re as much the little German as you claim.”

His grip has loosened. Beatrice twists her head away and sinks lower into the chair. The corner of Bohm’s mouth turns up.

“Now get out.”

He stands back and leans against the front of the desk again. Beatrice does not waste time on catching her breath. She shoves her ID into her bag and pulls it over her shoulder. She feels Bohm’s eyes on her as she reaches for the door handle.

“And Miss Baumann?” he calls.

Beatrice turns around, her heart stopping.

“Don’t leave your handbag where strangers can get at it.” he says. “Some people can be very…light fingered.”

Beatrice does not answer him. She steps outside and closes the door so quickly that it nearly slams.

The hallway is empty. Beatrice leans her head against the cool wall and takes a deep breath. What just happened?

Beatrice has lived with soldiers for months, but she has lived among school girls longer. She knows how they think. Suck up to the popular ones. Make them happy. Do their bidding. And maybe, if they are feeling generous, they will throw you a bone for your troubles. The thought of Bohm, such a tall and subduing presence, sucking up to anyone is almost laughable. Beatrice would laugh, but she can still feel where his fingers, cold and hard, were pressed into her chin.

She is being bargained with. Her safety hangs in the balance, all based on the wants and wishes of a man who is already steeped in power. Should he decide that the alliance of Adenauer and Goebbels is no longer necessary, her safety net will be dissolved. Beatrice had never considered until this moment that a Nazi could be the only thing keeping her safe.

She hears footsteps at the end of the hallway. Beatrice smooths down her jacket and walks calmly towards the exit.

It has just gone half past ten when Beatrice makes it back to the office. Rosalind looks up, frowning slightly as Beatrice sits down.

“Aren’t you supposed to deliver that letter from Goebbels?” she asks.

“Letter?” Beatrice looks questioningly at her. “What are you…oh, fuck!”

Seven o’clock, and Beatrice slumps against the front door to shut it. Konrad does not look up from the kitchen where he is pouring a glass of wine.

Beatrice has made up her mind not to tell Konrad that Bohm knows anything. It will be one more person to worry, one more person to endanger. The less that people know, the easier it is to hide. Besides, he has decided that he has enough on his plate as it is. Being a Jew and hiding a Brit in the middle of Nazi Germany can’t be relaxing work.

“How was it?” Konrad asks, setting down his glass. “Expose any Nazi secrets yet?”

“I got yelled at.”

“Mm?” asks Konrad, easing himself into an armchair. “By whom? Adenauer?”

Beatrice kicks off her heels and feels the blood rush back into her feet, making her toes prickle. She throws her coat over the rack and flops onto the couch like a ragdoll.

“Goebbels.” she says.

She hears spluttering and liquid splashing to the floor. Konrad has bright red wine down his front, and a puddle forming on the ground.

“Sorry, did you say Goebbels?” he asks in stark disbelief. “Joseph Goebbels? Five foot five, big forehead, clubfoot Goebbels?”

“Unless you know another?”

Konrad scoffs, and reaches for a second glass. He tops it up with shimmering crimson liquid.

“Traumatizing.” he says. “Drink?”

Beatrice takes the glass, but warily. “Is every solution to your problems alcohol?”

“No, it just helps.” he says. “God, you make me feel like an alcoholic.”

“You’re not?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t drink before five, and I don’t have any more than two per night. I just like how the taste.”

The fruity alcohol does little to settle Beatrice’s stomach. If anything, it only intensifies the bubbling, rippling fear that sits there. It does taste nice though.”

Unfortunately for Beatrice, being scolded by one Nazi and threatened by another are not the only turns for the worse.

“There is something else, actually.” she says. “Work dinner. Next Saturday.”

Konrad frowns and refills his spilt glass. “Who else is going?”

“The other secretaries. Adenauer. And…”

“And?”

Beatrice gives him a droll smile. “A few of the inner circle.”

Konrad sighs, a deep heaving breath, and looks down at his feet. His shoulders are tense, and Beatrice can see it from the other side of the room. Just mentioning Goebbels has made him nervous.

“A few.” he breathes. “Which ones?”

Beatrice thinks back to the list she was given, outlining the details of the dinner. There weren’t many elite listed, but there were enough.

“Goebbels.” she says. “Ribbentrop. Speer.”

“So it’s not a military meeting.” he says. Konrad begins to mutter to himself in complex German, in a Bavarian dialect. Beatrice wishes people would stop doing that; she can only speak high German.

“Alright.” Konrad says finally. “Those pigs, they’re not military leaders. They’re propaganda, armaments, and foreign powers. That’s…it’s not ideal. But it’s better than Goering and Himmler.”

“What are they in charge of?”

“The Luftwaffe and Schutzstaffel.” says Konrad. “More dangerous.”

“But only marginally.” says Beatrice. “Still not safe.”

“No. Still not safe.”

It isn’t as if Beatrice will be forced to talk and socialise with these Nazi pigs. All the same, it’s like being in a room with a chained up bear. You never know when the chain will snap.


	6. Not Any Safer Down Here

The sun has set, the fire is dying. Beatrice sits cross legged on the couch in the darkness, her stomach full of food, and a dressing gown around her shoulders. Konrad’s cat, a sleek, white creature with icy blue eyes, purrs in her lap and paws at her hair. Beatrice clutches one of her few remaining belongings from England. A photo.

There are seven people in this photo. Her family. Her mother, step-father, and four step-siblings that are almost half her age. They sit on the edge of a lake, crowded around a picnic basket that has been picked clean of what little food it contained. It is hardly noticeable through the grain of the photo, but those had been the days when their clothes had hung from their bones, where there was only enough breakfast for the youngest children, when Beatrice, Albert, and her mother had juggled three jobs at once just to pay the rent. Those were the days where they would all be lucky to have a cup of tea in the morning, and where a bar of soap had to last a year, where their grandparents could not fund their expensive boarding school funding any longer.

The date on the back of the photo is scrawled out in Beatrice’s mother’s handwriting.

Beatrice’s 15th birthday, Jan 14th 1937

And here Beatrice sits. A warm room, soft clothes, and a plate that had been full of hot food. Bottles of rich alcohol, spare rooms big enough to fit ten people, extra warm blankets, a grand piano of all things. With Konrad’s money, Beatrice could go to university and study engineering, or music. She could travel the world and see the wonders of the Statue of Liberty, the Kremlin, the Sydney Opera House. She can do all of the things that the Great Depression and this fucking war have stolen from her. With his money, she can feed her family, she can clothe her siblings, she can buy her mother anything and everything she deserves. Instead, Jane Wilson sits at home and prays for her family to come home. Her step-father lays face down in the sand in Africa as bullets whizz over his head. Albert is soaring through the clouds with a savage Kraut on his tail.

“Family?”

Beatrice jumps and spins around. Konrad is standing behind the couch, despite the late hour, he is reaching for a glass and a bottle.”

“Sorry.” he says. “Can’t sleep. Bored, you know?”

“Right.” Beatrice folds up the photo, but doesn’t put it away. Konrad settles into the couch just beside her.

“May I?” he asks, holding out his hand.

“What happened to not wanting to know anything about me?” asks Beatrice, but she gives him the photo all the same.

Konrad shrugs. “I’ve figured that if we’re going to live together, we might as well be comfortable with each other rather than cold. And if we get caught, it’s not as if they can track your grandmother down and kidnap her, right?”

“I hope not.”

Konrad reads the caption on the back of the photo. “Oh.”

“Oh what?”

He’s smiling faintly as he looks down at the picture. “Beatrice. That’s you, isn’t it?”

“Bingo.”

He turns the photo over. “So tell me. Who’s who?”

Beatrice leans over to better see the photo. “That’s my brother, Albert.” she says, pointing him out. “And the twins, Heather and Edward. That’s my step-father, and the baby is my sister Joan. And that’s my mother.”

“She’s very pretty.”

“I know.”

“You don’t look like her.”

Beatrice smiles, raising an eyebrow. It takes Konrad a moment to realise what he’s just said.

“Oh, no, no, no.” he says, raising his hands. “That’s not what I meant. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s fine.” Beatrice laughs. “I know what you meant.”

Konrad puts a hand to his heaving chest, taking steadying breaths. “Let’s forget I said that.”

He turns his attention back to the photo. His cheeks begin to lose their bright red hue.

“If you don’t mind me asking.” he says. “Your father? He isn’t in the photo?”

“Dead.”

Konrad doesn’t say anything. Beatrice frowns at him, to which he frowns in return.

“What?” he asks.

“You’re the first person who hasn’t apologised for his death.” says Beatrice. “Whenever I tell someone they say sorry as if it’s their fault. It’s just…odd not to hear someone say it.”

“Well, it isn’t my fault.” says Konrad. “And I know how irritating it is to hear someone apologise for a family member’s death. How hard is it to just accept that it isn’t your fault, and comfort the poor person.”

He says this bitterly. Beatrice does not know much about grief. But she knows enough to come to the conclusion that he has lost someone he loved himself. Someone close.

“My parents.” he says, noting her thoughtful look. “1916, both of them. My father was a frontline soldier in the first war. Shot through the head by a sniper. And my mother was a nurse. They found her dead in an abandoned British encampment. I was thirteen.”

Beatrice knows better than to apologise for his parents deaths. So she switches tack quickly.

“Wait, how old are you?” she asks. “If you were thirteen in 1916…”

“Thirty-seven.” he says. “May 14, 1903. Why? How old do you think I am?”

“Not that old.” says Beatrice. “Early thirties, I thought.”

He chuckles. “I’m touched, kleyntshik.”

A car starts up outside, making both of them jump. Beatrice laughs at herself for how scared she is.

“This country is fucked up.” she says to no one in particular.

“You’re telling me.” he says. “Which reminds me, I’ve been thinking about that work dinner.”

Beatrice sits up straighter. “Mm?”

“Well, you’ve got to go.” he says, gesturing with his glass, the liquid reaching for the rim. “But if you’re going to be sitting in a room full of Nazis, then you might as well make some use of it.”

Beatrice feels a shudder run down her spine. After her encounter with Bohm, she especially does not like where this conversation is headed.

“I…suppose so.” she says. “What were you thinking?”

“That Ribbentrop fellow.” says Konrad. “He’s a sordid bastard. He loves the French though. The people the culture, the wine. I can’t say I blame him for that. Now, you’re supposed to have lived in France for a few years, yes?”

“Yes.” says Beatrice uncertainly. “Where are you going with this?”

“Well…” Konrad says sheepishly. “Common interests, adorable little secretary, a bit of alcohol…”

He raises his eyebrows. Beatrice’s jaw gapes.

“No.” she says. “No, absolutely not.”

“Beatrice—”

“No.” she says firmly. “I will not flirt with a Nazi. An old, married, disgusting Nazi.”

She stands up with the intent of storming to her room in silence, but Konrad follows her.

“Listen, I’m not hiding you here so you can prance around with the German elite like some princess.” he says. “You have a job to do, and if you have to coddle up to these murderous pigs to do it, you’ll just have to damn well get used to it.”

“I would rather do anything else!” Beatrice shouts over her shoulder. “Anything at all, but not that.”

“Oh, don’t pretend like you have anything better to do—”

She wheels around and slaps him across the face.

He stumbles backwards, and raises his hand to his bright red cheek. His eyes, wide and shocked, reflect only surprise. Beatrice is fuming, and she steps closer to him.

“Do not,” she hisses, punctuating each syllable with malice. “Ask me to do anything like that again.”

She turns on her heel and reaches the third floor. She slams her door shut with such power that the windows rattle in their hinges, and the wood vibrates beneath her fingertips. She slides to the ground with her back against it, arms hugging her knees to her chest, and her heart thundering. The house goes quiet.

As Beatrice bustles over the stovetop the next morning, eggs crackling in the frying pan, there is an undeniable heaviness to the air. Konrad sits stoically at the dining table, hands clasped on the wood. He stares down at the newspaper with severe concentration. Neither of them speak. Their argument last night, however brief, was harsh. Only the cat, Shoshana, moves between them, rubbing up against Beatrice’s legs and mewling for food.

“Go away.” Beatrice whispers, nudging the cat with her foot. “Go on.”

“There’s fish in the fridge.” Konrad’s voice is clipped. “She can have some of that.”

“I’m making breakfast. And she’s your cat.”

“I’m reading.”

“You can cook for yourself then.”

The chair squeals against the floorboards. Konrad moves across the room in a flash so fast that it would have sent Beatrice tumbling had she been in the way. He rifles through the fridge as Shoshana paws at him. The fry pan cackles and spits food as Beatrice searches for a plate.

“Can you do that a little quieter?” Konrad mutters into the fridge.

Beatrice slides a plate out slowly, taking her time to make sure that it grazes every surface on the shelf before all but slamming it against the countertop.

Konrad slams the fridge shut. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

Beatrice begins to butter her toast. She reaches out to find a knife and fork, but Konrad catches her wrist.

“Beatrice—”

“Do you have any idea what you’re asking me to do?” Beatrice spits. “You think that it’s just so easy for me to flirt because I’m a girl, and that it must come naturally. Well it doesn’t, and it definitely wouldn’t be easy to flirt with a Nazi. There are a million different ways I can use my time here, but flirting at the first dinner I show up to will not be one of them.”

She wrenches her hand out of his grasp and sits down at the table. Konrad is left standing in the kitchen, clenching and unclenching his fist.

“I…I’m sorry.”

Beatrice glowers up at him. “Excuse me?”

Konrad looks as if he would rather be anywhere else in the world right now. He is looking at the ground, his face turned away from her.

“I’m sorry.” he repeats. “I shouldn’t have suggested something so…harsh.”

Beatrice purses her lips. Her anger is beginning to simmer rather than boil. The stress of his life, the burden of what he is living through, it would be enough to make anyone crack.

She shouldn’t have shouted.

“Look.” she says quietly. “We both did stupid things last night. And I shouldn’t have slapped you.”

“I shouldn’t have grabbed your wrist—”

“Alright, stop it.” Beatrice holds up her hand for silence, and Konrad obeys. “We can’t go around in circles feeling sorry for each other. Let’s just…agree to forget this.”

The silence is still heavy, but a layer of it has been peeled away. Konrad busies himself with his breakfast, giving Beatrice enough time to eat in peace before they have to sit face to face.

The rest of the week passes by like a film. Quick and distant. Beatrice gets used to waking at seven o’clock every day, a sleep-in for her, and walking the short trek to the U-Bahn station. Her days consist of delivering papers to and from offices, typing up reports, and editing notes from Adenauer before they are posted and delivered. Then at the end of the day, she walks home, makes dinner, and retreats to her room where she can finally be alone again. The relationship between her and Konrad has become cordial again. Strained, but cordial.

The dinner still sneaks up on her though. It is formal, black tie. Beatrice has never been to a black tie event, and has little idea as to what the requirements are. She enlists Rosalind’s help in buying a dress, and tries on at least twelve. Pink, blue, purple, cinched waist or not, off the shoulder or long sleeve; it is an arduous process.

They finally come to the right dress. The skirt and shoulderless neckline are the same pale shade of brown, while the bodice is a soft black cotton. It finishes just before her ankles. Rosalind practically swoons the minute that Beatrice steps out wearing it.

On the night of the dinner, Beatrice spends at least an hour pinning back her hair until it sits just above her shoulders, one small roll at her forehead. She uses what little make-up she has been given to pinken her lips and eyes, and slips into a pair of thin black heels.

“You look nice.” says Konrad stiffly as she comes downstairs.

“Thank you.”

“Now, don’t say anything stupid.” he says. “Don’t talk to Goebbels, don’t talk to Ribbentrop, don’t talk to Speer. Better yet, don’t talk to anyone.”

Beatrice finds it almost amusing how panicked he is at the thought of her talking to the Nazi elite. Only days ago, he was coaxing her into flirting with one of them. She is more than glad that he has changed his mind.

Konrad has allowed her to borrow his car rather than taking the U-Bahn. Like everything else in his possession, it is sleek and expensive, a black 1934 Adler Diplomat. She says her goodbyes to him before climbing into it and carefully pulling out onto the road. Beatrice is a good driver, most engineers are, but she is petrified that she will crash and damage such a gorgeous car.

The dinner is being held at the opulent Ilse’s am Friederichstrasse. Ilse’s is a three story building made from pale marble in the heart of Berlin-Mitte. Small lamps make silver light dance, accompanied by bouquets of white and pale pink flowers on every table. A ginormous chandelier looms over their heads. The crystals embedded into its long arms fracture the light so that translucent rainbows are cast across the walls. Waiters in black suits weave around the dozens of tables as they balance silver platters on their hands, moving like skaters on ice.

The guests of the dinner party have been seated at one long table in a private room. The décor and bustle of waiters is the same, but it is much quieter in here. Near the centre of the table, Beatrice spots Rosalind.

“I saved you a seat.” says Rosalind, patting the chair beside her. “Have you met Dietrich yet?”

She motions to the man sitting beside her. He painfully skinny, and barely any taller than Beatrice. His oval face is dominated by a pair of large, circular glasses that make his eyes appear wide and innocent. Beatrice recognises him as the man Rosalind was speaking to on her first day at work.

“You’re Rosalind’s husband, right?” she asks, reaching around Rosalind to shake his hand. “I’m Magdalen.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

Judging by the tremor in his hand, Dietrich is as nervous as Beatrice is. But one would be, she supposes, surrounded by dozens upon dozens of the Reich’s finest bastards.

“You wouldn’t happen to have spotted my parents yet, would you?” asks Rosalind.

“Well I don’t know what they look like.”

“Katrin is the spitting image of her.” says Dietrich. “They’re like clones practically.”

Beatrice shakes her head. “No. I’ve not seen her.”

While they wait for Rosalind’s parents to arrive, the trio indulge themselves by judging every dinner guest to pass by their table. There is the occasional handsome young soldier, or a stunning brunette with a breathtaking dress. But the real delights are the ugly ones. The officers and politicians who have grown too accustomed to an excess of food, men whose suits are stretched and hanging from their skeletal frames, and women who cannot match colours and hairstyles.

Beatrice feels a figure hovering at her shoulder. She turns to see Rosalind getting to her feet to embrace a woman who most certainly is a carbon copy. Rosalind’s mother is her twin in almost everywhere, save for the fact that she looks to be at least fifty years old. Nevertheless, their features are very nearly identical. Beatrice follows Dietrich’s lead, and stands up to greet her.

“Katrin,” says Rosalind’s mother with a smile. “Lovely to meet you.”

“Magdalen.”

There is a boy standing beside Katrin. He too looks very similar to his mother and sister, but the perfection is inhibited by his stronger jawline, and slightly darker hair. He smiles awkwardly, and only shakes Beatrice’s hand after his mother nudges him.

“I’m Johannes.” he says stiffly.

“Oh, don’t look so glum.” says Rosalind. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like wearing a suit.” he mutters. “I’ve only been here five minutes and I’m already bored. Why do there have to be so many people?”

“That’s how a dinner party works, Hans.” says Katrin. “And you look very handsome. Now sit down.”

Johannes grumbles and sits beside his mother. Beatrice supresses a knowing smile. Albert is exactly the same way once you force a tie around his throat. Goodness, what a nightmare Sunday morning church used to be with him.

“Where’s Vati?” asks Rosalind. “Socialising, no doubt.”

“He doesn’t exactly chose to socialise.” says Katrin. “Everyone just wants to feel important, so they talk to people who are important.”

Beatrice is about to ask who Rosalind’s father is, when he arrives. She is sitting with her back to him, but something seems to be holding her in place, and she does not want to turn around. Her heart has begun to thunder.

“Speak of the devil.” says Katrin, beaming at him over Beatrice’s shoulder. “Got a little caught up did we, Alexander?”

“Have I ever expressed to you how much I hate parties?”

“Once or twice.”

As Rosalind’s father makes the long trek around the table to his seat, Beatrice notices almost every seated pair of eyes following him. Some call out in greeting, shake his hand as he passes. One even salutes. It is clear that this mysterious father figure is as popular as Katrin claims.

She does not see his face until he seats down across from her.

It’s Bohm.

Rosalind’s father is General Bohm.

He is dressed in his Waffenrock, his dress uniform, like the rest of the officers in here. In comparison to the suit he wore when Beatrice met him, it only serves to double the pace of her beating heart. If he was terrifying then, he is petrifying now. Severe. Distant. Almost haughty, if it were not for the softening presence of his wife, who causes an unnerving smile to cross his face. In spite of how vicious he was to Beatrice; something tells her that he has an especially juxtaposed soft spot for her. Unlike the other officers that sit beside them, his fingers are entwined with hers ever so gently. The smile in his eyes is genuine, not proud.

His eyes dart to her for a fraction of a second. Beatrice looks away.

“Oh, Vati,” says Rosalind. “This is Magdalen. Magdalen, this is my father.”

Bohm holds out his hand to shake. When Beatrice takes it, she knows that he can feel how much she is shaking.

“Alexander.” he says. “Magdalen…?”

“Baumann.”

“Forgive me if I’m wrong,” he says. “But we’ve met before, haven’t we?”

It is almost the exact same phrase that he used in his office that Monday morning. It sends a shiver down Beatrice’s spine.

And he’s toying with her. Pretending to be the polite, charming husband the rest of the table seems to take him for, when in reality he is watching her panic and flitter like an insect trapped in a web. She cannot accuse him of threatening her at such an important event as this, but she also cannot make him look like a fool without repercussions. How badly that would reflect on her.

“We might’ve crossed paths.” she says.

That answer seems safe enough. It is not out of the question that the two of them would run into one another. They work in government buildings only a short walk away each other, and apparently know similar people. The rest of the group nods in agreement. So far, so good.

As she looks around the table, Beatrice picks out the faces that are only recognisable through the channel of newspapers in England. Goebbels, Speer, Ribbentrop, all of them at the head of the table with their wives beside them. Here are the men that are leading this war, this monstrosity of a conflict. Here are the men that can have whole villages, families, schools, decimated with merely a click of their fingers. Here are the men who can whisper in their Fuhrers ear, and within days a law can be changed, rations can be eased, a discrepancy will be ignored. Here are the men who do not look twice at Beatrice, who think of her as nothing more than another naïve, young girl. Yet she finds herself at their table, against all of the odds, sharing bottles of champagne, baskets of dinner rolls, stories and anecdotes. Is it really so easy to pull the wool over their eyes? To make them believe that she is one of them?

Beatrice does not dare question it. She is safe, for the most part, and she still intends to take advantage of this luxurious lifestyle that she has been graced with. The food in front of her are like plates of gold. Tender beef, hot and dripping with creamy sauce. Steaming and crisp vegetables with golden skin. Mashed potatoes so white and fluffy that one could almost mistake it for fallen clouds. Meals such as this are as infrequent as a blue moon. Meals like this are unobtainable for a person like Beatrice.

“So, Magdalen.” says Katrin. “Rosa told me that you lived in France.”

Beatrice swallows her food quickly. “And she’s right. Paris, in fact. I moved there when I was…six I believe. In all honesty, my French is much better than my German. I went so long without having to speak it.”

“Is that why you have a weird accent?” Johannes asks.

“Johannes,” Katrin says warningly.

Beatrice smiles, but her stomach fizzes. She knows that her accent is not perfect. She was rather hoping that no one would bring it up, but if Johannes can spot it, then so can they. At least she is able to pass it off as being muddled with French; that is something to be grateful for.

“Vati speaks French, don’t you?” says Rosalind, looking at her father.

“Je doute que je parle aussi bien que Madamoiselle Baumann.” he says. Then he looks up at her, piercingly staring into her eyes. “Mais le francais n’est pas la seule langue que vous parlez, n’est-ce pas?”

It is all Beatrice can do not to shudder. She forces a knowing smile onto her face, a secret smile that those who speak the same language share with one another when the people around nearby do not understand them.

“N’aimerais tu pas savoir.” she replies.

Bohm’s receiving smile is enough to look friendly. But the tiny flicker of his eyes betrays his disdain for her.

“Alright, enough French.” says Dietrich. “Would you pass me a new bottle, Magdalen?”

Beatrice passes over a full bottle of champagne. But as Dietrich’s fingers wrap around the bottle, and as Beatrice lets go, a sudden laugh at the other end of the table startles them. The bottle teeters. Dietrich regains his grip quickly, but not fast enough to stop golden bubbling liquid from splashing across Johannes’ jacket.

He jumps to his feet. “Motherfucker!”

“Mm?” Bohm cuts through his food with a bored expression.

“Oh, stop it.” Katrin slaps his arm as Beatrice and Dietrich laugh silently into their plates. Rosalind turns crimson, but even her shoulders are shaking.

Dinner plates are cleared away. Drinks are refilled. The tablecloth is replaced so quickly it is as if the champagne had never been spilled. Johannes discards his jacket and tie, and Beatrice suspects the accident had not been such a nuisance to him after all.

There is a quiet murmuring at the head of the table. Dinner guests look up to see Goebbels standing, clearly prepared to make a speech.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is no small honour to have you gathered here tonight,” Goebbels says proudly. “Seven years of glorious leadership under our Fuhrer, seven years of rebuilding Germany.”

There are whispers along the table. Whispers of honour and prosperity. Whispers that speak of war and victory. Whispers that make the food in Beatrice’s stomach rise to her throat.

“And even in the midst of war, it is not only our military commanders that lead us through the dark times,” he says. “No offence meant, Alexander.”

The table laughs, and a thin smile slinks across Bohm’s face. He turns red.

“It is our journalists,” Goebbels continues. “Our architects, our foreign negotiators, our defenders of law. And those who are not seen. Our wives, our secretaries, our business owners, our labourers in the fields and factories.”

There is a quiet round of applause. Like a crowd before a horse race, Beatrice can feel the anticipation building. It is like a sky full of fireworks that sizzle and spin, ready to burst.

“And I thank you all for being here to celebrate tonight.” Goebbels reaches for his glass, and the rest of the table follows suit. Beatrice’s hand shakes as she raises her glass.

The little minister raises his glass. “To a one thousand year Reich.”

“A one thousand year Re—”

The voices break away. The restaurant falls silent. In that brief lull, every dinner guests head is turned to the ceiling. A piercing shriek slices through the din.

Air raid.

Beatrice does not have time to stand. Chairs and people crush around her. Guests shove one another to their feet to clear a path to the exits. Dignity is cast aside. Everything is a blur. Silk, ties, uniforms, guns, glass, china. The persistent screams rise above the sirens. Ministers in their costly dark suits are pressed against the walls, their important status abandoned. Glass is crushed to a powder under sharp heels. Flower petals lay tramped into the champagne soaked tiles. The chandelier swings perilously.

And all of it happens in thirty seconds. Thirty seconds where Beatrice is pushed back into the table, and her hand slips from Rosalind’s. She watches as she and Johannes grab their mother’s arms and tug her towards the exit. Dietrich is on their heels, picking up fallen guests as they run, and looking around for Beatrice herself. He spots her, and moves to grab her arm, but is swept away in the wave.

A thin hand wraps around Beatrice’s wrist. Bohm pulls her to her feet and leads her through the crowd. He is the only one that they part for. A catalyst for the Red Sea. Beatrice does not question why he has come back for her.

An echoing boom shakes the ground. Beatrice and Bohm both slam into the ground as a single explosion rocks the building. Hundreds of dinner guests fall to the ground, plaster raining down on them. Cutlery rattles. Glass shatters. Beatrice can feel the ground trembling under her hands, and it makes her glasses bounce where they lie, having slipped from her nose. She grabs them, struggles to her feet and searches for the exit. But the crowd is thick, and the panic thicker. Shoes. Crystal. Sirens. Beatrice can scarcely see straight ahead. The doors are blocked, and the roof is beginning to rain down on top of them.

They push further and further in. Bohm towers over every guest, and his imposing frame splits them. The room shakes another three times before they spill out onto the pavement. Cold air hits them like a slap. Guests, waiters, and soldiers run in all directions. But Bohm is sure, and keeping a hold on Beatrice’s wrist, he turns left and pulls her after him.

A new noise comes from the restaurant they’ve just managed to escape. Metal squeals, and the screams are inharmonious. A flash of white crystal plummets into the ground. Thousands of shards of diamond, glass, and porcelain explode and slam into the windows. They are slicked with red.

Beatrice stops, gaping at the sheer amounts of deep red liquid that trickle down the windows. There is no movement from within the restaurant now, but she and Bohm were not the last to leave…

She shrieks as Bohm grabs her shoulders and whirls her around. Without waiting for her to respond he pushes her forwards, then marches her alongside him. It feels more like she is being arrested than running for her life. Her heels skid and slip on the wet pavement, slowing the both of them down. When they come to the bomb shelter, an old U-Bahn station, Bohm wraps an arm around her waist and half leads, half carries her down the stairs. It shaves precious seconds from the danger, and they hit the bottom stair as a second explosion takes the street. Civilians topple down the stairs; the lights flicker.

“Alexander!”

Huddled in a corner, Katrin, Rosalind, and Dietrich cower from the crushing crowd. Beatrice and Bohm stumble like children in knee deep water to get to them.

“Where’s Johannes?” calls Bohm, narrow eyes sweeping the shelter up and down.

“Already in a plane.” says Katrin. She stands up and wraps her arms around her husband, kissing him on the cheek. “Thank god you’re alright.”

The world shakes. Dust rains from the ceiling. Muffled rumbling echoes in the clouds over their heads. In the tiled tunnels, babies cry, mothers hush their children, and old men pray. Everyone in between is silent. The dim yellow lights dance again. Cold wind blows in under the heavy shelter doors, bitter and sharp. It tastes of copper. Whether that is from the fallen bombs and planes, or the heavy embrace of blood on the air, Beatrice does not, and does not want, to know which it is.

A soldier marches up to Bohm and sticks his arm out in salute.

“Herr General.” he says. “Herr Minister Ribbentrop has asked to speak with you.”

“He’s down here?” asks Katrin. “I would have thought that he would be sent somewhere safer.”

“This shelter was closest, ma’am.” says the soldier. “Herr General?”

Bohm turns back to his wife. “I’ll be back soon.” he says. “I love you.”

Reluctantly, Katrin lets go of his coat. With a smile designed to reassure, Bohm walks away with the soldier. It is not difficult to see the way that Katrin shakes though. Her shoulders tremble as she stares at the spot where Bohm stood only moments ago.

In those dark tunnels, with no windows or clocks, there is no way to tell what the time is. An hour passes, or maybe two. More than once, the electricity goes out and plunges the shelter into complete darkness, only to come back on minutes later. The draft prods at those with coats. It claws at those without. The bombing itself lasts only minutes, but they are the longest minutes of Beatrice’s life. Every bomb, every whistle of metal falling through the air, is like a threat to break in the ceiling. She can just feel the bricks crumbling around her, crushing her spine and tearing her flesh; warm blood spilling over the concrete. She has never thought that she might feel so scared of her own army. Her own brother could be up there, swerving and flipping. He could be aiming for Johannes’s tail. Or maybe Johannes is aiming at him.

Beatrice does not know what the time is when Bohm returns. It could not be any longer than two hours, but it feels like the whole night has passed by above them. Rosalind and Katrin are asleep on one another’s shoulders. Beatrice and Dietrich have slept in shifts, but only for minutes at a time. Every crack or shift in the wind has startled them awake.

Bohm crouches down in front of Katrin and gently shakes her shoulder. “People are going home now.” he says gently. “Come on.”

In the street above, an unexpected silence hits Beatrice. The only sound is the soft crackling of the small fires that have broken out in the demolished buildings, and the calls of the soldiers rifling through the debris for bodies. Searchlights in their silvery glory are turned to the sky in desperate hope to catch a glimpse of a forgotten plane. A mangle pile of twisted metal lies burning in the middle of the street, paint peeling, and a stench worse than burning rubber rising from within. A gloved hand sticks out.

Even in the aftermath of a bombing raid, Alexander Bohm is the picture of composure. With the U-Bahn lines down, and the roads blocked, he walks his family through the streets. One arm is around Katrin’s shoulders, the other holding Rosalind’s hand. They are quiet, their thoughts with Johannes who still may be circling overhead, touching down at an airstrip, or anywhere in between.

There is a strange sort of solidarity in those streets. Victims making the same trek home as them nod, glance, and a secret understanding passes between them.

“I was scared too,” their eyes say. “But we’re alive, and that is what counts.”

How livid these people would be to know that their enemy walks among them. To know that the unassuming blonde woman in a torn evening gown is the sister of a man who may have destroyed their home? How they would riot. How quick they would be to turn to violence.

The road comes to a split. Left to Konrad’s house, right to Rosalind’s. In front of them lies the Tiergarten, a vast expanse of trees and shrubbery, unlit pathways, and purple flowers saturated by darkness. On a night without war, the streetlamps might have been lit, and the garden might have been beautiful. But tonight it is pockmarked with craters and dirt, sandbags and guns.

Bohm stoops to kiss his wife. “I’ll be home soon.” he says.

“Where are you going?” asks Rosalind.

“Walking Miss Baumann home.” says Bohm. “It’s perfectly safe, but I’m sure her uncle would appreciate it if she weren’t walking the streets alone at night.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.” says Beatrice quickly. “You’ll want to get home, I’m sure.”

“It’s no trouble.” says Bohm. “Besides, I need to check on my men in the Tiergarten.”

For those first few moments of walking, whilst the others are still within earshot, Bohm makes gentle conversation in French, to which Beatrice is forced to engage. He gives her his coat, noticing the goose bumps that are running up and down her arms. They as they round the corner, the pair fall into a cold silence.

It is odd, but Beatrice can hear him thinking. Not literally of course. But she finds that when people are deep in thought, they give off visual cues. Reserved and tense, like any sort of social interaction will startle them.

It isn’t until they are two streets away from where they’d split away from the others that Beatrice realises something is wrong.

“He’s not thinking. He’s waiting.”

His arms are what give it away. When he was in thought, he walked as a general should. Bohm always walks with his arms close to his sides, short movements, if any at all. He walks as if he is guarding himself against something, preparing for the unknown. But now he is so nonchalant. Relaxed and calm. His arms swing at his sides.

“You look pale.” says Bohm. “Are you alright?”

Beatrice gulps. “Fine. A little nervous.”

“Why are you nervous?”

Beatrice chuckles anxiously. “We’ve just been bombed, and you’re asking me why I’m nervous?”

“Well, you’re alive, aren’t you?” he says. “Safe and unharmed.”

“No thanks to you.” she says. But her tone is not one of gratefulness. It is questioning and confused. “Why did you come back for me?”

“Because,” Bohm says slowly, as if speaking to a very young child. “Rose would never forgive me for leaving you there. Not to mention, as potentially dangerous as your presence is, you spies tend to carry a rather useful vault of state secrets, which I intend on discovering.”

Beatrice shivers to think of being interrogated by Bohm. At least she has no state secrets to give away. A little part of her understands why MI6 has not trained her, nor entrusted her with their more delicate missions. She cannot stand being in pain. Stubbing her toe, a rather pitiful injury, typically requires five minutes of vulgar curses and clutching at her assaulted foot. She knows that she would break within minutes if Bohm has anything to say about it. She would rather not betray her own country in the process.

Beatrice loses her balance as she is shoved into an alleyway. Her head slams into the brick wall; Bohm’s hand is clenched around her throat. She keels into the wall. Bohm covers her mouth and towers over her. Rough stones scrape her arms and legs, and her flailing is all for naught.

“Answer me simply, Miss Baumann,” He draws the last word out, close to her face. “Did you, or did you not, tell your air force that we were all going to be under the same roof tonight?”

“I…no!” Beatrice gasps for air. She clutches at Bohm’s hand. “Can’t breathe! Sir!”

“Was your plan to kill us all in one go?” he says. “Did you honestly think you could do it so easily?”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Oh, don’t lie—”

He howls in pain as Beatrice digs the heel of her shoe into his shin. He lets go of her neck and stumbles backwards. Beatrice drops to the dirt ground on all fours and takes in deep lungfuls of air. Her skin is sore and pinching from where he held her throat.

Bohm stands between her and the street. He is a giant; casting a shadow that encompasses Beatrice entirely. Bohm knows his power. He takes a breath and ignores the pulsing in his leg as he takes patient strides towards the kneeling girl, letting the gravel crunch slowly under his boots. Her heels are sharp, yes, but she is only small. It will not take much to force the appropriate punishment from her.

Beatrice holds out a trembling hand, a weak shield. “Why…” she pants. “Why would I have a building bombed if I knew that I was going to be inside? I wouldn’t have even showed up.”

Bohm stops. Beatrice can see the words ticking over in his mind. It is hours, days, years, before he moves. He stoops to pick up his jacket.

“Get up.”

Beatrice would have stood on her own accord. But the low growl in his voice tells her that she does not have a choice in the matter. Her head spins.

“Tell a soul about this,” says Bohm, “And our deal will be rescinded with immediate effect. Clear?”

Beatrice nods shakily, and makes a weak attempt to turn up her chin; a final display of strength. It is wavering. Bohm sees her shaking features and softly scoffs. He walks towards her slowly.

“And that includes—” He raises a hand, and wipes a smear of blood and dirt from her cheek. “—your uncle.”

Beatrice wishes that she could muster a piercing scowl; a stare full of fire and passion. Instead, her skin crawls, and she has to push down a whimper. “Don’t.”

“I’m only fixing your face.” he says. “We wouldn’t want your uncle to worry that you’re getting into too much trouble, now would we?”

But he drops his hand and steps away all the same.

“Try not to get kidnapped on the way home,” he says. “I have better things to do with my time than babysit British spies.”

He pulls his coat back onto his shoulders and stalks back onto the street without another word. Beatrice waits until she cannot hear his boots against the pavement before stepping out and walking the other way.

The lights are out when she gets home. She has barely reached the base of the stairs when Konrad throws open the front door.

“Thank God.” he says, pulling her inside. “I had no idea if you were alive. Are you alright?”

He eyes the scratches along her arms warily, but Beatrice shakes her head soundlessly. She feels just fine.

“You’re sure?” he says. “Christ woman, you’re freezing. Go have a shower, I’ll make you a hot drink.”

It takes Beatrice five minutes before she can step into the shower. Her skin is so cold, it turns the gentle rain into a scalding downpour. Exhausted, anxious, and still cold, she opts to sit on the ground and let the water rush over her like a waterfall.

Afterwards, she dresses in her warmest pyjamas, and pulls on her thick dressing gown. A tall mug of tea sits on the bedside table, still steaming, and a chocolate-coated biscuit lies alongside it. Beatrice, who barely had time to eat at dinner, scoffs both down before she can even climb under the blankets. The last thing she feels is Shoshana climbing out from underneath the sheets and setting against the crook of her neck, her quiet purrs coaxing her away.


	7. Unwelcome Visitors

The pounding at the front door sends pulses through Beatrice’s head. She groans and turns to look at the clock; it’s barely gone seven o’clock. She waits a moment, listening for the sound of Konrad’s door and his footsteps, but it does not come. Another round of knocking begins, and the sound alone is enough to pull Beatrice out of bed. She mutters curses in hushed English as she ties her dressing gown and goes to open it.

“Saint-bloody-Peter, would you give me a minute to breath.” she mutters, and reaches for the door handle. “Can I help you—”

Her words trail away. Three men in long dark trench coats and peaked hats stand before her. Their hands are folded neatly in front of them, and all but one stare stonily over her short frame.

They are Gestapo agents.

The man at the front smiles pleasantly. “Good morning.” he says. “Is this the residence of Herr Eugen Konrad?”

“I…it is.” Beatrice says. Her heart is racing, and her voice is thick.

He holds out his hand. “Haupsturmfuhrer Ernst Steiner.” he says. “You are Magdalen Baumann, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you are Herr Konrad’s…?” He stares at her questioningly, eyebrows raised almost mockingly. Beatrice realises that she is supposed to answer.

“Uh, niece.” she says quickly. “I’m his niece.”

The man nods towards the sitting room. “May we?”

The last thing Beatrice wants is to let them inside. But it is not a request. She opens the door further and stands back to let them inside. The two silent men immediately begin to rifle through the kitchen drawers, while the man who had spoken removes his cat and coat, hanging them on the rack where Beatrice and Konrad’s own belongings rest.

“I apologise for the early intrusion, Fraulein Baumann.” he says. “But it was not up to me I’m afraid. Now, would you mind fetching your uncle for me?” He eyes her up and down, gaze skating across her pyjamas. “And perhaps allow yourselves a moment to dress.”

Beatrice pulls her dressing gown tighter around her chest. She nods and rushes by without another word. It is all she can do not to run.

She knocks rapidly on Konrad’s bedroom door. It takes her three tries before he opens the door. His dark hair, always so neat, is ragged and flyaway, and there are circles under his eyes.

“What?”

“We have company.” she mutters, jerking her head at the stairs. “Gestapo.”

Konrad’s eyes flick towards the source of the noise downstairs, narrowing as the sound of his kitchen being pilfered reaches him.

“Please tell me you don’t have a menorah hidden anywhere,” Beatrice mutters. “Or Jewish children in the attic?”

“Mercifully not.” says Konrad. “Did they say what they want?”

“They just want you to get dressed and go talk to them.”

Konrad slams the door in her face. Beatrice huffs, and rushes to get dressed herself.

By the time she reaches the kitchen again, Steiner and Konrad are deep in quiet conversation in the corner. She can hear the sounds of the other two as they go through the rooms on the second floor. The kitchen has not been destroyed or damaged as Beatrice thought it might have been, but it certainly is not clean.

Steiner looks up as Beatrice nervously approaches. Konrad, who is now dressed with his hair smoothed back, watches her nervously.

“Herr Konrad, is there a place where Fraulein Baumann and I may speak in private for a moment while you retrieve what I’ve asked for?” asks Steiner.

“Ah, the…the library maybe.” says Konrad. Beatrice has never seen him so flustered before. It is not a good look.

Beatrice gapes at him. She has realised, with a start, that she is being forced to speak with this man, a Gestapo agent, completely alone. What if she says something she shouldn’t? What if she forgets a word in German? What if, what if, what if?

But there is no time to question what if, because Steiner is gesturing for her to follow him upstairs.

Aside from her own bedroom, the library is Beatrice’s favourite place in the entire house. It takes up most of the second floor, and is covered from head to toe with hundreds of books, old and new. The tall windows on three of the walls let in slats of golden sunshine, and the room is always airy and warm. What shelf space is not taken up by books is filled by pot plants, and there is a couch set into the large bay window that looks over the street. It always smells of pine, timber, and old paper in here, and is rarely intruded upon by such a negative influence. Beatrice hates that it is in this room that she must speak with Steiner.

He circles around the room slowly, admiring the décor. Beatrice crosses her arms, unsure of what she is supposed to be doing. Up here, where it is quiet, her mind stills. She should be able to focus, but she does not know what conversation lies ahead. And there are copious amounts of hair gel slicking Steiner’s hair back, filling the room with a chemical, bitter scent. It makes her head spin.

“Your uncle is quite a rich man,” says Steiner, still pacing. “What type of business does he run?”

“Erm…clothing.” says Beatrice. “Formalwear mostly.”

“And business is good?”

Beatrice shrugs. “Rations haven’t been kind. But I think it’s alright.”

Steiner makes a contemplative noise in the back of his throat. He eases himself onto the couch and crosses his long legs over.

“You lived in Paris before Berlin, didn’t you?” he asks, to which Beatrice nods. “How well do you know your uncle?”

“Not very well I suppose.” says Beatrice. “I mean, I knew him before I moved to Paris, but I was quite young at the time.”

“And he’s your…mother’s brother?”

“Yes.”

Beatrice wonders what these questions have to do with anything, but does not pry. She doubts that he would tell her anyway. Not to mention the suspicion that would be raised against her if she were to judge the authority of a Gestapo agent.

Steiner fixes her with a studious stare. “The reason we are here, Fraulein Baumann, is because concerns have been brought up in regards to your uncle and his business. I’ve heard tales of fraud, pyramid schemes, underpaying. So I am asking you now, as the only other person to live with Herr Konrad, are you aware of any illegal business practises?”

Beatrice does not believe Steiner for one minute.

She knows that Konrad can be brash at times. Some might even say risky. His arrogance and confidence are his most predominant traits. His wealth makes him easy to implicate for a crime like this. His lifestyle is luxurious. His kitchen is stocked with the finest alcohol, his clothes are expensive, and his house is in the richest borough in all of Europe. An ambitious man such as himself would go to any lengths to hold onto that wealth. But a man intent on clutching onto such riches by throwing his workers under the bus would not bring a British spy into his home. He would not comfort her after her own country bombs her. And he would not treat her with such kindness in such dire circumstances.

But that’s not all. This interrogation comes so incredibly close to her potent conversation with Bohm the night before. The odds that these two instances are linked are through the roof. How easy would it be for a man as influential as Bohm to click his fingers and order a Gestapo agent to do everything in his power to expose Beatrice’s secrets.

“No.” says Beatrice. “No, of course not. He would never do anything of those things.”

Steiner raises an eyebrow at her admonished outburst. “Do you have proof?”

“Do you?”

She’s grabbing at straws with a remark like that. Not only that, but she is tempting Steiner to react in a way that benefits neither her nor Konrad. But he does not snap at her. His face does not change one bit.

“Well?” says Beatrice.

“I do not have any proof.”

“Why ca—wait.” Beatrice hesitates, lowering her accusing finger. “You actually answered me.”

“You’re very observant.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to answer me.”

Steiner shrugs his shoulders. “I see no point in withholding information from you. We do not have concrete evidence in your uncles behaviour, but isn’t it best to catch the culprit before they do anymore damage?”

It is a desperate ploy to make a scapegoat out of an innocent man. And Beatrice will be damned if she is just going to stand there and let this agent slander Konrad.

“Even if my uncle is guilty of fraud,” she says. “Shouldn’t you be worried about more important problems? Jews? Traitors? Spies?”

It burns her tongue to make a remark that even hints at a hatred towards Jews. It burns nearly as much to hang her own title above Steiner’s head; like a dare for him to interrogate her further. Begging him to ask if she is any or all of those things.

Steiner sighs. “I do not chose which leads I follow. I’m told to go, and I go. And Eugen Konrad just so happens to be the man I have been ordered to investigate.”

“And was it General Bohm that told you to investigate?”

Steiner looks taken aback. His mouth gapes open for a moment, and his expression goes blank.

Beatrice’s lips quirk up at the corner in a that tiny smile that would make Bohm himself jealous. “Oops.”

Steiner goes red. “What makes you think that General Bohm sent me?”

Beatrice has an overwhelming sense of understanding of what it is like to be in a position of power. She now knows why these villainous people find it so easy to stalk and saunter with such ease as they watch their victims dangle on the end of their puppet strings. Her cadence is just the same as she moves to stand in front of Steiner and leans back against the table, crossing her arms across her chest. For the first time since she’s gotten here, she is winning.

“Because,” she says. “There are three Gestapo agents in this house, and not a single one of them is watching the suspect, who ironically has been left unguarded by the front door. Instead, your men are searching through my house whilst you interrogate me about crimes for which you have no evidence. If I were trying to arrest someone, I would be trying to coax a confession out of them first before I move on to assaulting their family members. Wouldn’t you agree?”

She watches Steiner struggle to formulate a coherent sentence. She swims in this momentary power; she understands what it is like to be the victor. It is almost amusing to watch him as he realises that he has been figured out.

“General Bohm told me you would be easy to trick.”

“Well he was wrong, wasn’t he?” says Beatrice. Then she comes to the conclusion that there is nothing more she wants, nor needs, to say to this man, and the winning smile slips from her face.

“Out.”

Steiner dares to smile weakly back at her. “Excuse me?”

“Get out.”

“Or?”

“Or I’ll have an inquiry held against you for knowingly following a false lead,” she says with a snarl in her voice. “And what a pathetic sight that would be. Fired over something so avoidable; tut, tut—”

“Alright, I’m going!” Steiner stands up, holding up his hands in surrender and moving towards the door. “I’m going.”

Beatrice follows a step behind him on the stairs, watching as he beckons for his dark suited lackeys to follow. Konrad watches with narrowed eyes as they move towards the door.

“It appears,” says Steiner. “That we’ve made a mistake with your charges. I can assure you; you’ll not be bothered again.”

“I sincerely hope so.” Konrad mutters.

“My apologies, Herr Konrad,” says Steiner, retrieving his coat and hat. “Fraulein Baumann.”

“Haupsturmfuhrer.”

Steiner sweeps out of the door, and with its neat little click, the house goes silent.

Konrad slowly looks at Beatrice, who is standing on the second-to-last step of the staircase. He raises his eyebrows.

“What was that about?”

Beatrice turns to leave. “You’re welcome.”

“For what?”

“For getting rid of them.” says Beatrice over her shoulder. “I can be very persuasive when I feel like it.”

Konrad follows her as she climbs the stairs. “Persuasive how, exactly?”

“It’s a secret.” says Beatrice. “Magic is much more fun when you don’t know how the magician pulled it off.”

“Alright, but as your loyal assistant, shouldn’t I know how you did it?”

“Maybe later.”

“Beatrice—”

Beatrice stops and whirls around. “Eugen, I’ve just kicked three Gestapo agents out of your house. Let me breath for a moment, would you?”

Maybe she is fast, but Konrad is faster. He catches up to her, his long legs letting him step into her path easily.

“Well I’d like to know why they were in my house to begin with.”

Beatrice guards herself as she crosses her arms across her chest. She can still hide the truth from him. All she has to do is deny what she knows, and Konrad will be none the wiser.

“I have no idea, alright?” she says. “Have you considered that they were actually interrogating you, and not out to get me? I’m not the only criminal in the house you know.”

“Right, because that’s likely.” says Konrad. But his voice is weary. His words are strong, but his demeanour says otherwise. He runs a trembling hand through his hair and paces backwards and forth. Beatrice’s eyebrows furrow.

“Are you alright?”

“Fuck.” Konrad mutters. “What if they are trying to pin something on me? What if you’re right?”

“I doubt I am,” says Beatrice. “Look, you’re in business, innocent people get accused of fraud all the time. This ought to brush over within a week.”

Why is she still lying to him? Why put him through all this worry, convincing him that it is his back that he needs to watch and not hers, when they need to worry about more important things? Why, why, why?

Konrad’s back hits the wall, and he slides to the ground. He brings his legs up to his chest, breathing heavily. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. this is…fuck, kleyntshik!”

Tenderly, Beatrice crosses over to him. She sits beside him, resting her back against the wall. The room still smells of the Gestapo agent’s leather trench coats and Steiner’s hair gel. This is no place for this conversation, but Beatrice does not know if she can coax Konrad into moving.

“It’s going to work out,” she says quietly. “It always does. We just have to trust that this is a mistake, and they’re not going to come back.”

“What if it’s not?”

“Eugen, I’m not well versed in the world of Nazism,” she says. “But if a tiny girl like me can scare a Gestapo agent out of the house before he’s barely started his interrogation, I’m fairly certain that they won’t want or need to come back.”

Konrad laughs weakly. His eyes are red.

“And if they do,” she says with a mischievous smile. “I’ll scare them all out again.”

“You are pretty scary.”

“That’s very nice of you to say.”

The bombing of the night prior, despite resulting in very little physical damage, has still managed to knock out the power to half of Berlin. When Beatrice goes to shower, she finds the water ice-cold. When Konrad goes to make a piping hot coffee, he discovers that the kettle will not boil. The house, which is normally only ever lit naturally, refuses to acknowledge the circuits and wires that run through it. To Konrad, who has never been bombed before, it is an inhibition. But to Beatrice, it is nothing more than a nuisance, a problem that she has learn to adapt to by now. After Dunkirk, it felt like they were ushered into the bunkers every other night whether the bombs dropped or not. In Berlin though, that feeling is unknown.

So Beatrice is more than surprised when she walks downstairs at dinnertime to find a gorgeously decorated, candlelit table. Konrad is pouring out glasses of wine as she reaches the bottom stair.

“Have I missed something?” she asks tentatively. “Special day?”

Konrad’s cheeks turn a light shade of pink, just visible through the golden darkness. “I feel bad for breaking down when I’m supposed to be the one who knows what he’s doing, so I…I wanted to do something nice I suppose.”

Beatrice gives him a hopeless smile. “You don’t have anything to apologise for. You had a normal human reaction to the literal secret police storming your house. Anyone would have broken down.”

Konrad shrugs. “Still. I wanted to do this for you.”

Beatrice looks down at her clothes; her bare feet covered only by stockings. “I feel underdressed.”

Konrad laughs and pulls out her chair. “It’s not a date kleyntshik. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Oh, that’s very kind of you.”

On her plate, Beatrice can see a golden-brown slice of steaming Wienerschnitzel, golden curls of Spaetzle, circles of crispy Kartoffelpuffer, and a generous helping of bright yellow Apfelmus. The plate is white and shimmering, and the thin cutlery is silver, not steel.

Konrad raises his glass. “Prost.”

“Cheers.”

Beatrice has barely raised the glass to her lips when there is a knock on the door. She groans and moves to answer it, but Konrad waves her down, putting a finger to his grinning lips. Thirty seconds pass, then—

Knock, knock, knock.

“They’re persistent.” Konrad whispers. “I hope it’s not those Gestapo agents again—”

Knock, knock, knock. 

Beatrice’s eyes flick to the door. “You should probably see who it is.”

Konrad sets his glass down and storms over to the door. He takes a moment to rearrange his harried features into a neutral expression before opening the door. Two shadows break the twilight square that falls over the entryway.

“Can I help you?”

Beatrice is surprised to hear a French reply. It is a woman’s voice, and somewhat familiar.

“Êtes-vous Eugen Konrad?”

“Oui.” he says. “Nous sommes en train de dîner, alors peut-être que ce n'est pas le meilleur moment—”

“Connaissez-vous Beatrice Wilson?”

Beatrice flies to her feet.

She freezes before she reaches the door as the strangers come into view, and their faces come to their memory.

The woman has frizzy black hair that rests just above her shoulders, an hourglass figure, and the warmest eyes she has ever seen. The man is young; he has thick, curly black hair, and tanned skin covered in freckles.

The woman is Claudette de Leroux. And the man is Albert.

She looks between them and Konrad, who is staring at her with his eyebrows raised, and his mouth agape ever so slightly. She has to stare at Albert until his smugly guilty expression burns into her memory. Her head hurts.

“I’m going to pass out,” she says plainly.

Konrad takes a tentative step forwards. “Beatrice?”

She teeters once before her knees give out and she topples into Konrad’s arms.

She wakes back up before Konrad even has the chance to lie her down on the ground. She grabs his arm and pulls herself upright. Her cheeks should be burning, but she does not feel any shame at having just fainted. Her head is still pounding as she turns on the pair at the door.

“What. The. Fuck.” The words drip like blood from Beatrice’s lips, slow and quiet. And Albert has the nerve to smile and flick his hair back as if nothing is wrong.

“Lovely to see you too,” he smiles, donning Beatrice’s Oxford accent in a mocking tone. “I climb across half of blood Europe, get around that bloody Maginot Line the frogs set up, no offence Claudette, and all you can say is what the fuck? Come on Bee, I thought we were on better terms than that.”

He invites himself inside, draping his coat over the back of the neat couch. Konrad’s eye twitches.

“This is nice,” Albert says, looking about the room. “Damn, is that real silver—”

He screeches as Beatrice smacks him across the face.

“You! Utter! Prick!” Beatrice accompanies each word with a blow. “You bastard! What the bloody hell is wrong with you?”

“Alright, steady on!” Albert holds out his arms. “Christ woman, you’ll give me a proper injury one of these days.”

“I bloody well hope I do!” Beatrice yells, her throat hoarse. “Take a look outside! Where are, Albert? Hm? Where are we?”

Albert’s eyes dart towards the window as if he is contemplating answer his sister, but thinks better of it.

“Well?”

“B…Berlin.”

“And where is Berlin?” Beatrice snarls. “Think back to your geography classes Mr Eton graduate, where the bloody fuck is Berlin?”

“Germany.”

Beatrice throws her hands up in faux celebration. “That’s right! Germany. We in the capital of the Third fucking Reich, the capital city of this war, and the very reason we are sitting here having this bloody conversation—stop petting the fucking cat and listen to me!”

Albert’s face is bone white, ashen with panic. His mouth moves in silent pleas for forgiveness unlikely to come so soon.

“Why the hell are you here?” she says. “You…how? How on earth are you here?”

“I…Campbell told me you’d been sent overseas,” says Albert. “He wouldn’t say where, so I…I knew it would be…dangerous.”

“You’re a fucking pilot!” says Beatrice. “What if you’d been seen? Caught by the Germans and shot in the head? Hm? What sort of lunacy do you possess that compels you to sneak across half of fucking Europe just to come and find me? Have you been hit over the head? Bewitched maybe? Or are you just fucking touched in the head?

“And you!” Beatrice rounds on Claudette. “This is twice as dangerous for you than the rest of us!”

She drops her gaze to the ground. “I want to help—”

Beatrice holds up her hand. “I don’t care.”

The adrenaline is fading away. The murderous passion she had felt only moments ago dissolves into lethargy. Her legs begin to shake, and she quickly drops onto the couch.

“You…” She stops, takes a breath, then keeps going. “You have no clue how dangerous it is here. For both of you.”

Albert looks out of the window, hands clutching in front of him so that his knuckles turn white. Claudette’s head is hung in shame.

“But you can’t go back.” Beatrice says. “It’s too dangerous to travel across the borders.”

Beatrice stands back up, her legs calm again, and paces around and around. Konrad nods his head towards the stairs. They stand with their heads close together, voices hushed, and away from the intruding pair in the sitting room.

“How the fuck did they get here?” Beatrice says. “Did they follow us? Ha…has anyone seen them?”

“No idea.” says Konrad. “It’s bad enough having one spy in my house, I don’t need three of them.”

“I realise that!” Beatrice hisses. “But I don’t want them here either. They will get us caught, they will get themselves caught, and they will cause me enough stress so that I’ll look as old as Bohm. But listen, if it was dangerous for them to get in, think about how hard it will be to get them back out.”

Konrad rubs his face and groans. “They’re on a suicide mission.” he murmurs. “They’re going to get themselves killed.”

“I don’t want them here.” says Beatrice. “But I sure as hell don’t want to smuggle them back over the border. Especially not her. How she even got past the soldiers in the first place is beyond me.”

Beatrice looks back at Claudette. Her ethnicity does not matter to her, but the world is a vile place with a sadistic hatred for anyone different to them. The Third Reich is the king of intolerance, and it flaunts a crown gilded with the blood and bones of a blameless minority. Claudette is a raven in a field of snow. Crossing the border, hell, setting foot in the streets of Berlin is just begging for a German bullet in their backs, all of them.

Beatrice hates herself for letting it happen.

“Then they have to stay here.” says Konrad. “If we can’t get them out, we hide them. The spare rooms in the attic. But I am not responsible for them. If the Gestapo storms my house again, I will not hesitate to throw them both under the bus. My job is to keep you safe, and to keep myself safe. Not them.”

Konrad’s shoulder digs into Beatrice as he pushes past her and storms upstairs. Beatrice allows herself a moment of panic in the darkness, a moment to let all rational thought, leave her mind and invite the world possible outcomes to flood her mind. Then she stops. She looks back at her brother, at Claudette.

“You can’t save them if you panic.”

Brushing non-existent dust from her clothes, she steps back into the light of the sitting room. With Konrad gone from sight, Albert and Claudette look up.

“There are rooms in the attic.” she says quietly. “You’re not to leave this house, you’re not to draw attention inside, and you’re not to be a nuisance.”

She directs that last line to Albert, who is well known for his juvenile behaviour.

They have no bags, and meekly follow Beatrice upstairs. Past the library, past the bedrooms, all the way up to the attic at the very top.

There are four rooms under that sloping roof, dark and musty. Tiny windows provide a dull slit of light, and a breath of fresh air on safer days. In the bedrooms, thin and creaking beds are dressed in old blankets and pillows. Splinter laden cupboards stand beside their doors. The bathroom, unused and untouched, has cobwebs strung from corner to corner. Floorboards creak underfoot, and dust falls from disturbed surfaces. Up here, away from the fireplace, no heat remains, and there are already goose bumps along Beatrice’s skin.

“I’ll find some more blankets.” she mutters. “And something to get rid of the cobwebs.”  


The both of them are filthy, covered from head to toe in dirt and mud, their hair knotted, and their skin bruised. It takes another row with Konrad to convince him to give up a shirt and pair of pants for Albert, just so that he has something to wear until Beatrice can buy more. She digs through her own cupboard, doubting that anything she owns will fit Claudette, who is nearly as tall as Konrad himself.

With the clothes delivered, Beatrice finally collapses onto her bed. The beautiful dinner has been abandoned, stored away in the fridge for someone to steal in the middle of the night.

Knock, knock, knock.

Beatrice opens the door to find Claudette on the other side. She fidgets nervously.

“I…I thought I should talk to you.” says Claudette. “About…well, about how we got here.”

“Oh…right.” Beatrice opens the door wider. “Do you want to sit down, or…”

Claudette lowers herself onto the very edge of the armchair. Beatrice sits awkwardly on the edge of the bed as if she is visiting a patient in hospital.

“Well…this first part is what Albert told me.” Claudette starts. “As soon as he’d heard that you’d left for Dover, he borrowed a car from your base and just…followed you.”

Beatrice can imagine Albert doing something as ridiculous as that. She doubts that Campbell is overjoyed to learn that one of his top pilots has stolen a car, especially after that bombing. But she lets Claudette continue, eager to hear of the pair’s misadventures.

“You obviously left port before he even arrived.” she says. “He waited two days before another boat went out. A small boat, and it only went halfway. I think he…he swam the rest of the way.”

Inside, Beatrice’s gut twists at the thought of Albert cutting through that ice-cold water. Swimming half of the English channel would’ve taken him hours, hours as his bones would start to freeze and tense, hours as his arms weakened. How?

But she keeps her face neutral. She wants to hear the rest.

“When he got to Calais, he managed to sneak into the city, stole someone’s clothes off of their line.” says Claudette. “And spent the night at the pub to warm up. He stole another car the next morning and drove to Reims. I don’t know how he knew that was where you were going, but he did.”

Beatrice could hazard a guess at how he knew. By beating it out of Campbell.

“But by the time he got to us, Herbert had already come back, and you were on the train.” she says. “Herbert obviously didn’t want to tell him anything. The two of you don’t even look alike, so Albert couldn’t prove that you’re related. Then he told me about your father and…I knew that he was your brother.”

“And Herbert really let him try to find me?”

Claudette shrugs. The corners of her mouth have turned up slightly, dimples forming as if she is trying not to smile. “Not…not exactly. Herbert let him stay for one night and then we…snuck…out.”

For all of her anger at Albert for following her, for all of her irritation and worry, Beatrice feels a spark of warm pride for her brother, in the deepest crevice of her heart. Only a spark though, still swallowed by fury.

“We went through Switzerland first.” Claudette says. “That was easier than going around the Maginot Line. We walked some of the way here, sometimes drove. Always at night though.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Beatrice holds up her hands for Claudette to stop. “How did you find me here though? Here, as in this house?”

“By accident really.” says Claudette. “We saw you last night, after that air raid. Albert wanted to follow you then and there, but I wanted to make sure no one would see us. So we came tonight.”

Beatrice lets Claudette’s words wash over her, lets them sink in. They have put their necks on the line, tempted guns and soldiers, beckoned Death closer, all because Albert Wilson was afraid for his sister. There are infinite ways that their foolish journey could have gone. Beatrice does not know what to feel. Strangely, she has the urge to laugh.

“That’s a lot to take in.” she says slowly. “And I’m not quite sure what to say.”

“I’m…I’m not expecting a…I’m not expecting you to forgive us.” says Claudette. “It was a bad idea, we just…we just wanted to help. That’s all. And I thought you should know how we got here.”

That spark? That spark that is hidden in the crevice of Beatrice’s heart, it has begun a tiny fire of pride. And there is something else there as well, something that isn’t pride, something that makes Beatrice’s stomach flutter, and something that makes her smile for reasons that she cannot explain.

As she falls asleep that night, the fire is still burning. It is growing. Like a campfire, it claws at chunks of wood, marshmallows dripping over an open flame, and soft voices echoing in the night.


	8. Spark

There is still an icy cold silence to the house the next day. When Beatrice awakens and gets herself ready for work, no one is downstairs. When she walks out onto the street and stares up at the drawn curtains, she sees no movement. When she glances one last time into the sitting room window, she knows that, still, nobody has moved from their rooms. They don’t dare risk running into one another.

She feels horrid. Horrid for all of them, horrid for herself. Albert and Claudette, who only wanted to help, have now been shut out and ignored by Konrad. Konrad has had his house invaded by two more people that he does not know. And Beatrice must find a way to juggle all of their problems, on top of her own, at once.

She returns home that night to a kitchen filled only by the aroma of food and washed dishes. They have eaten separately, and without her. Too tired to cook for herself, she fishes out the gorgeous meal that Konrad had spent so long cooking the night before and takes it up to her room. She does not want to speak to any of them. Not right now anyway.

It is like that every day for the next two weeks. Beatrice only sees Konrad late at night, when the others are in bed, and he is draped across the couch half drowned in a bottle. Albert is only around in the early mornings, eating and washing before anyone else, his military body clock still ticking. And Claudette she sees least of all. She only comes out to cook, and sometimes not even then.

Until there is a knock on the door one Sunday morning, and Konrad foolishly opens it.

Beatrice is upstairs, about to begin putting her hair up, when she hears his shout of indignation. She abandons her pins and rushes downstairs, heart thundering. She stifles a scream as she turns the corner and smacks into a tall figure.

“Saint Peter—” She puts a hand to her chest and stumbles back a few paces. “What are…what are you doing here?”

Bohm straightens his jacket. “Do you always run around corners, or was this just one outburst of stupidity?”

Beatrice internally groans. As impassive as Bohm typically is, there has always been some sort of glint or cue in his behaviour that tells her that he is in a good mood. Cruel, but good. But now, his eyes are as flat and dead as a shark’s. His mouth is turned down at the corners, and there are bags under his eyes. She shuffles backwards another step.

“What do you want?” she asks. “Where’s Eugen?”

“In his study I believe.” says Bohm. “Collecting some business papers for me to look at.”

“Why do you—”

“Wait in the sitting room before I backhand you.” he says. “Now.”

Beatrice does not challenge him. The snarl in his voice is enough to motivate her.

The sitting room is full of soldiers. They throw open cupboards, turn over rugs, dig through crevices and behind furniture. Between them, they bark orders in sharp voices. A glass falls, the pieces sprinkle like silver rain drops across the dark floorboards.

When Bohm returns, Konrad is at his side, and they speak with their heads together, voices low. Konrad is pale, hesitant. In his hands, he holds a thick business ledger. Beatrice strains to hear their conversation, but cannot make out a single word. As the second tick by, Konrad’s eyes widen more and more. The blood drains from his face until it resembles a ghost. He hands the ledger to Bohm, and sits beside Beatrice.

They sit a foot away from one another on the couch, but their smallest fingers are interlocked. Konrad’s eyes are blank and stare straight ahead. His hands tremble as if the ground below him is shaking. Chaos reigns around them. Cushions, books, cutlery, all strewn across the floor, forgotten and abandoned. Glasses have been crushed to a powder under the soldiers heavy boots. Shoshana arches her back and hisses vehemently.

Beatrice leans towards Konrad. “Where are they?”

“Shush.”

The anticipation is killing her. She has not lived with Konrad long enough to know just how clever he is. She does not know where he has hidden Albert and Claudette. She does not know if they are safe. But at the same time, it comforts her strangely. By being left in the dark, Beatrice cannot imagine all of the different ways that her friends could be found. She cannot think of how they might feel. And most importantly, she cannot imagine herself in their place, feeling the terror they must feel, the anxiety and panic in knowing that there are soldiers only a few feet away.

Besides, what is more terrifying? Being tucked away from the enemy’s gaze, not knowing if they would find you? Or sitting in plain sight, already found?

Who is more afraid?

The soldiers gravitate upstairs, the sounds of their rummaging drifting through the floorboards. Whether to guard or intimidate, Beatrice does not know, but Bohm has not left the room once. He hovers by the piano, tapping the keys quietly. He is too tall though, and the notes come out staggered. A twisted parody of the Kalendar Prince.

Five minutes become ten, and ten minutes become twenty. Konrad’s leg bounces; his fingers drum on his knee. That is when Beatrice realises that there is a third kind of terror. The kind where you are sitting in the enemy’s line of sight, yet the enemy does not even realise that you are on the other side of the war. Konrad could have anything in his room. A leather-bound Tanakh. A Star of David on the end of a silver chain. A menorah.

When the solders return empty handed, Bohm turns his sharp chin towards the pair on the couch.

“Nothing?” he asks, looking almost surprised. “And here I was worrying for nothing. Mr Konrad, until your ledger is returned, you are forbidden from conducting any business, no matter how urgent. Your contacts will be monitored, as will any travel outside of Berlin. Is that clear?”

Konrad nods stiffly, his scowl dark. “Yes.”

“The same goes for you, Miss Baumann.”

“Yes sir.”

Bohm’s lips twitch towards a smile. “Good. My apologies for storming in without warning. It’s not often that I am tasked with these sorts of jobs.”

Bohm strides towards the door, the soldiers just ahead of him. Beatrice jumps as his lips brush against her ear.

“Lucky girl.”

He says it in English. Without saying another word, he stalks away and shuts the front door.

Konrad silently stands and beckons for Beatrice to follow him. It is obvious that soldiers have been through here. The doors they have left open reveal rooms that have been turned just as upside down as the kitchen. What they were searching for, Beatrice assumes was evidence. Evidence to convict, condemn, and arrest. Bohm is trying to break their deal.

The two of them climb to the attic. Even those slanted rooms have been searched, but Albert and Claudette have hidden their belongings well. Under floorboards, below tiles, in hollow legs and doorknobs. Beatrice is yet to see where they have hidden themselves.

In Albert’s room, Konrad reaches for the latch on the window. It looks out over the Tiergarten instead of the street. Cold air floods the room. Beatrice feels her jaw drop.

“On the…are they on the roof?” she asks. Leaning out of the window, she scans the dark tiles up and down. And there they are. They huddle against the chimney, shivering and shaking. Albert and Claudette are perched on the roof nearly four floors off of the ground.

“Oh my God.” Beatrice reaches out a hand, helping Claudette inside first, then Albert. Both of them shiver violently, their teeth chatter. Albert’s normally tanned and freckled face has turned a sort of greyish-red from the wind.

He chuckles weakly, hands on his knees. “That,” he says, “Was bloody cold. I’d rather not do that again.”

“What happened?” asks Claudette. “Why were they searching the house?”

Konrad glowers at no one in particular. “They said they were following up on leads that I’ve been committing fraud. I have not been committing fraud however, so I strong suspect that it was someone else’s fault.”

All three of them look at Beatrice. Her cheeks flush bright red.

“You said that they weren’t looking for you.” says Konrad quietly.

“I said that,” she says. “I…it’s not entirely my fault. And he’s much smarter than he looks—”

“He’s a field marshal!” Konrad throws his hands up in the air. “A general field marshal! What? Did you just assume that he’d have the intelligence of a paranoid twenty-year-old girl?”

Beatrice flinches. “I’m not paranoid.”

Konrad jabs his finger in her face. “Well you fucking should be!”

“Sorry, I’m still confused.” Albert steps between the two of them. “Who are we talking about?”

“General Alexander Bohm.” Konrad says. “Head of the Panzer Division, in charge of defence in every occupied capital city, and one of Hitler’s closest confidantes. He has every Nazi in his pocket, he’s as rich as a king, and his family are the pride of the fucking Fatherland. And now she—” He points an accusing finger at Beatrice. “—has gone and gotten his attention.”

“Just calm down for one moment, would you?” says Albert. “If she says that it wasn’t on purpose, then it wasn’t on purpose. It was an accident that he found out, right Bee?”

“Of course it was.” she says.

“Well then how did it happen?” asks Konrad mockingly. “Hm?”

“We…”

Beatrice does not want to tell the story of how she and Bohm know one another; the deal that they have struck. But Konrad’s stare is merciless, and she has lied to him for long enough. Now is as good a time as any. Albert and Claudette watch her, expectant for an answer themselves.

“It was in France.” says Beatrice. “When we were on our way to Reims, his unit shot our car, killed the driver, and nearly put a bullet in my head. I thought he was dead, I shot him in the stomach, but apparently not, because he shows up Monday morning at work and recognises me! Happy?”

Konrad turns redder and redder by the second. “Happy? We have a fucking general on our tail, you psychotic woman; do I look happy to you?”

“You asked!”

“How long were you planning on keeping this a secret?” says Konrad, his voice dropping dangerously low. “Until he arrests us? And why hasn’t he arrested us if he knows you’re a spy?”

“We made a deal.” says Beatrice. “He doesn’t want to fall out of favour with Adenauer or Goebbels by arresting one of their secretaries.”

Konrad hisses through his teeth. “You’re telling me,” he says, voice slow and sustained. “That the only reason we are still standing here is because Alexander Bohm does not want to upset two men he doesn’t even like?”

“Y…yes.”

“That is the weakest thing I have ever heard—”

Beatrice shrieks as Konrad hits the ground. Albert’s face is crimson, and his hand is clenched in a bloody fist. Claudette grabs the back of his collar.

Konrad’s face drips with blood. It spills over his nose and mouth, and drips into a dark puddle on the floor. His hand is coated with it, shaking and red. Droplets roll down his chin. 

Albert pulls violently against Claudette. “We’re not dead you stupid Kraut! And we’re not fucking stupid enough to get caught!”

Konrad climbs to his feet. He wipes away the blood, but it just keeps coming. He lets it flow.

“In case you haven’t noticed.” he says. “Your dear sister has failed to kill the only man that is suspicious of us.”

“And in case you haven’t noticed, she had no fucking control over it!” Albert spits. “Shut your fucking mouth before I knock out your teeth—”

“That’s enough.” Claudette says firmly. “Come on, you’re done now.”

Keeping a firm grip on his shirt, Claudette pulls Albert into the bathroom and shoves his hands under the sink. They speak in lowered voices.

Konrad looks to Beatrice. His bloody face is marred by the gush of crimson, and hatred is reflected in his dark eyes. Beatrice looks away.

“I need to clean up.” she says.

She starts in the kitchen, and works her way up. She fills the bin twice with the amount of shattered debris scattered across the abused floor. She stacks the photographs that have been torn from their frames, and ties them neatly so that she can fix them. She replaces hinges, and bangs out dented doors. She cleans scuff marks from the walls, and opens windows to clear out the war-like stench of metal and beer.

When dinner time arrives, Claudette is the only one to come downstairs. But not to eat, Beatrice realises, but to help cook. Other than asking where everything is kept, the quiet woman does not say a word as she goes about peeling potatoes, slicing onions, and cracking eggs. Beatrice joins her, silently, cracking what little salt they have left for the week over thin slices of raw steak. They make just enough for all four of them, though Beatrice notices that Claudette dishes out the smaller slices to herself and Albert. She feels her gut twist, though from what emotion, she cannot say.

“Thank you.” she says quietly. “For helping make dinner.”

Claudette doesn’t look up; her hands pause for a breath before dishing out food onto Konrad’s plate.

“He’s going to be mad for a few days.” says Beatrice. “And he’s not a particularly warm character anyway. I wouldn’t take it personally.”

Claudette hums in agreeance, but still she does not speak. She does not even look Beatrice in the eye. They each take a plate and deliver to the boys upstairs, who are both refusing to come out lest they run into one another again. A ridiculous feat. It is like trying to run away on a ship; there is nowhere to go, and being found is inevitable. Albert sits stony-faced on his bed, staring out of the window. Blood-red streaks of sunlight curve through the heavy curtains and spill over his face. His eyes are closed. His long, dark eyelashes glow in the light.

“You’re still not going to come out?” says Beatrice.

“Not until he apologises.”

“You can’t apologise to one another if you can’t see each other.”

Albert shrugs. He doesn’t say or do anything more as Beatrice sets the plate down on the bedside table, and slams the door shut.

Downstairs, it is only Beatrice and Claudette at the dining table. The room feels lighter; there is not quite as much tension between the two women as there is between the two men. They eat in relative silence, speaking only to make weak attempts at conversation before giving up in a heap of exhaustion and frustration. The sunset has turned the clouds ruffled and pink ghosts of toxic purple on the edges. The light makes feathery shadows across the kitchen wall, swirling streaks of, grey, rose, and wine, dusted with gold.

A wave of thunder rolls across the sky outside. Claudette jumps. The wine-gold light dances in her eyes.

Beatrice’s stomach twists. And it hurts.

What was that?

One moment, all had been relatively calm. Then Beatrice had seen…well, she does not know what she has seen. The light catching in Claudette’s eyes has startled her, sending her heart beating at a million miles an hour. She feels sick and energised and peaceful and heavy all at once.

Then it happens again after dinner. The quarrelling boys can bring their own plates down to be washed for all Beatrice cares. She and Claudette stand at the sink scrubbing their dishes. And there is a brief second, among the warm water, the soft bubbles, the smooth porcelain, that their hands brush. It is a snap of the fingers, the blink of an eye, the scuttle of an ant, all from the perspective of a giant, but it is more than enough to send a ripple of electricity up Beatrice’s arm and down to her toes. A nanosecond where Beatrice feels the blood pumping through Claudette’s hand, how smooth her skin is, how neat her nails are. Beatrice’s face twitches as she fights for neutrality, and pushes the ripple down. Claudette does not notice, and they stack the dishes in silence.

With the house in order, Beatrice retreats upstairs. Thousands of thoughts fly through her head, but one keeps presenting itself to her over and over again. She has felt it once before, that same feeling when she kissed Tommy Kornfeld in sixth form. But stronger. Oh god, so much stronger. That kiss was like the tickle of a butterfly. This was like waves crashing against the cliffs, spraying up white foam against slate, carving at centuries of foundation and solidarity. Eroding. Weakening. Changing.

Konrad is in his room, but his library is empty. The familiar scent of pine and timber rushes to Beatrice as she tip-toes inside. It isn’t that it is forbidden to enter the library. It is more so that she does not want anyone to know what she is looking for.

She scans across the dozens, probably hundreds, of titles. Konrad has a sliver of every genre in this miniature library of his. Romances with dashing heroes, blushing princesses, and villainous dragons. Cook books that practically spill the food right out into your hands as you flip through the pages. Science and mathematics, that always makes Beatrice’s hands tingle and itch for her work when she picks them up, and Konrad laughs at as he pretends to understand what they are talking about. Politics in long winded, ancient German words that Beatrice couldn’t dream to understand after a lifetime of study. An ungodly number of business and commerce volumes that Beatrice doubts Konrad has open more than once each. There is only one book that she suspects will be of any use to her. It is tucked away on the highest shelf beside the door, buried behind three layers of dusty law books.

Homosexualität von Männern und Frauen

It is dusted and beginning to split at the spine. No one will notice if it goes missing. She slips it from its shelf and dashes into her room. For good measure, she slides the chair under the door. She sits with her back against the head of her bed, hip jutting into the bedside table, ready to shove the book into the crevice should anyone come knocking.

Her thoughts scatter like birds as she reads. The words, confusing German compounds, barely register in her mind as she tries to gain control of herself. Is it consolation that she is looking for? Refutation? Or is it merely an answer that she seeks, and to decide upon her judgement later? Her first instinct upon confusion was to reach for a book, so Beatrice settles on the latter.

She thinks of all of the times at school when the girls had fawned over the Eton boys, or some handsome young tutor, and she had sat back unimpressed. She thinks of Tommy, and tries to remember, didn’t Dorothy McKinnon dare her to kiss him? She thinks of all of the times that her mother has remarked about handsome she found Clark Gable and Humphrey Bogart, and Beatrice has merely shrugged.

She has heard that there are women that fall in love with other women. She mentioned it once to her mother in an off-hand sort of way. Jane Wilson had flown into a rage, preaching and waving her Bible about as if it were a shield of old. She had dragged Beatrice to the town priest, Father William, and left the pair to talk for two hours. Father William had spouted the usual tripe, a direct quote from the Bible and some hazy analysis.

“In Leviticus,” he’d said to her that day, “Chapter eighteen, verse twenty-two, it says ‘Man shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination.’ Do you understand that Beatrice?”

“Sort of,” she had told him. Sort of, in that she understood it grammatically. She did not understand why such a law under God existed, but she didn’t need to tell that to Father William. “What about women?”

“It is the same rules for men and women,” he’d said. “God does not condone such actions, regardless of gender.”

“But that verse only talks about men lying with other men.” she’d said. “What about the women that lie with women?”

She had been eight at the time. And ten years on, she still does not have her answer.

Is it even possible? She does not know? She has not had any relationships. None of the boys from Eton, or any of the schools in London for that matter, had ever appealed to her. They were so full of themselves, so arrogant, so proud. The girls were oftentimes nicer, and still are once they leave the schoolroom. Nine times out of ten, they look prettier too. Claudette sits squarely within that range. Her eyes are so wide and bright, and her hair has this untameable frizz to it that Beatrice likes. Every time she speaks in that delicate French accent, Beatrice feels herself smile—

Oh.

Oh no.

Konrad gets his ledger back at the end of August. Reluctantly, he and Albert can tolerate one another’s presences, and speak tentatively, but Beatrice is still yet to hear a verbal apology from the either of them. Since the fight, life has carried on like it should any other day. Wake up, go to work, come home, and go to bed, with very little of anything else in between. Beatrice is grateful for the rhythm. She does not know that she will be able to take on anything spontaneous. Simply existing in this country is stress enough.

On Sundays, when she has a day free from work, she and Rosalind will often go out to lunch. Konrad was unsure of their frequent outings together at first, but came around once realising that Bohm would go nowhere near them. Not only that, but there is a reason behind these lovely little lunches. Beatrice has seen firsthand how Bohm treats his family; the utmost love and respect. Theoretically, and with a dash of luck, if she is to actually befriend Rosalind rather than just stand as another colleague, then perhaps Bohm will be reluctant to arrest her. Such an adoring father would hate to upset his only daughter by taking away her close friend, surely? It is a stretch, but worth a try. If nothing else, it gets her out of the house, and away from the silent war that Albert and Konrad continue to put up.

The marvellous thing living in a city as large as Berlin is that there are infinite places to go out. Even in war, cafes and restaurants find ways to stay open. On the Spreeweg, nestled in the shadow of the Schloss Bellevue, sits a tall café, its walls thin and limestone, dripping with ivy and flooded with all sorts of scents to make the mouth water. Hot, sugary jam. Crispy, fresh pastries. The intoxicating aroma of coffee worth more than Beatrice’s weekly wages. From a large radio behind the counter, soft music drifts through the wide open doors and onto the paved courtyard where they sit.

A hunched old waiter delivers two slices of lemon cheesecake. The white wedge is fluffy and soft, ringed by a golden brown wall of biscuit. Within the little wall, atop the cake, a layer of passionfruit coulis. The flavour is sharp, and it makes the inside of Beatrice’s mouth tingle and fizz. She has never tasted cheesecake before. It is so strong that it makes her face screw up, and she has to take a breath. Rosalind giggles at her, easily spooning the sugary cake into her mouth.

“You’ve not had cheesecake before, have you?” she asks.

“No,” coughs Beatrice. “God, that’s so much lemon.”

“It’s delicious once you get used to it.”

Beatrice tentatively brings another forkful to her mouth. It’s still tangy, but less so now. Rosalind is right, once she gets used to it, she cannot get enough of it.

Across the street, a group of boys no older than sixteen stand smoking. A hazy cloud of smog floats around them. They all wear the same clothes; a tan, collared shirt, black shorts that stop just above their knees, and a kerchief fastened around their necks.

“Johannes was in the Hitler Youth, wasn’t he?” Beatrice asks, gesturing to the group with her chin.

“Mm hm,” Rosalind says brightly, scooping up another piece of cake. “He graduated last year. Joined the Luftwaffe almost right away.”

“I wouldn’t have picked Johannes for a pilot.” says Beatrice. “Come to think of it, I wouldn’t have picked him for the army at all.”

Rosalind shrugs. “It’s more Vati’s idea really. Johannes doesn’t mind. He was in the Hitler Youth for seven years; he might as well make something of it. Besides, it can’t hurt to have another plane in the sky.”

Rosalind says it so candidly. But maybe that is the price to pay for having a field marshal for a father. War just becomes another convention. It is like getting married, or retiring. Still, it unnerves Beatrice. Johannes is Rosalind’s brother, her only sibling, and yet she cannot detect one ounce of concern.

“You’re…not worried?” Beatrice places her words carefully. “This isn’t some phoney war like before they took Paris. People are actually dying now.”

“You know, as much as I tease him, Hans is smarter than he looks.” Rosalind says. “He’s flown before. He knows what he’s doing.”

“Yes, well so do the English.”

Rosalind snorts. “They know how to flip and roll and jump out with their parachutes strapped to their backs. That’s different to actually fighting.”

Albert had enlisted in the RAF the day after he turned eighteen, months and months before the war had begun. Of his training unit, he’d been ranked second out of a total thirty. In May, only four months ago, he’d been promoted to a Flight Lieutenant, one of the fastest junior promotions in RAF history. If it were to come down to a dogfight between her brother and Rosalind’s, Beatrice would put her money on her brother every time.

“Do they teach flying in the Hitler Youth?” asks Beatrice. “I thought it was more like survival training. You know, boy-scout type activities.”

“Think boy scouts on cocaine.” says Rosalind. “It’s hard Lena, one of the most difficult things a boy can do. They take only the best of the best. Blonde hair, blue eyes, the perfect German. Johannes passed all of his physical examinations with flying colours.”

“Well of course he did.” says Beatrice. “You’re all Aryan; Johannes looks exactly like your father. Minus the—”

“Grey hair?”

“I was going to say old age.”

Rosalind giggles and slaps Beatrice’s arm. “He’s not that old.”

“How old is he then?”

Rosalind thinks for a moment. “Fifty-eight.”

“Well there you go—”

“Oh shut up.”

Another slice of cake each, and a mug of coffee downed, both Beatrice and Rosalind are well and truly ready to make the trip home. Rosalind swats away Beatrice’s purse and gets up to pay. Beatrice is stacking the plates in the centre of the table for the waiter to collect when the boys across the street begin to whoop and cheer.

“Go get him!”

“Catch that dirty Jew!”

“Yes, yes, yes!”

Four soldiers march along the street. Their boots shine and stamp against the pavement, snapping one after the other. Their arms swing, their stride is fast, and their fierce eyes are locked onto one unfortunate target.

The waiter.

Diners jump out of the way as the soldiers barrel past. A sharp boot comes down on Beatrice’s foot. She yelps, but the soldier does not even turn his head. Rosalind skitters out of the way, leaving the poor waiter defenceless. His wrinkled eyes are downcast. His shoulders slump. There is no fight left in those old bones. That does not concern the soldiers though, as they ram the butt of a gun into his stomach, and Rosalind shrieks. Cheesecake rises in Beatrice’s throat. The waiter hits the ground with a choking gasp. He curls into a ball as blow after blow rains down on him. He cries out at first, shaking and sobbing. Then he goes quiet. He falls still. The soldiers haul him to his feet and begin to drag him away. A trail of blood is smeared into the concrete. The radio lays tipped on its side, the speakers crackling feebly. All the while, the Hitler Youth boys clap and cheer.

As the soldiers frog march the waiter away, his hands flail for something to grab onto. His bony hand wraps around Beatrice’s wrist for a fraction of a second. Before Beatrice can react, the waiter is pulled away sharply. Red fingerprints are left against her skin, warm and smudged. She can feel knives in her stomach. The old man’s pathetic sobs echo in her ears like the crash of symbols; the soft thud of metal hitting flesh over and over again. The boys across the street have peaked to a crescendo. Clapping, cheering, whooping.

Why hadn’t she helped? She had just stood there, watching. He’d taken her wrist, why hadn’t she grabbed him? Something. Anything. What if that had been Konrad. Or Claudette, or Albert? She would’ve helped then. Why not now?

The scene plays out again on the train ride home. A broken record, a looping film. The stillness of the diners. The cheering boys. The looming darkness of the guns that had not even been fired. Why, why, why?

Beatrice slams the front door shut. Konrad has claimed the sitting room as his own, laying across the couch with a book propped up on his chest. His eyes track her as she moves to the sink and begins scrubbing furiously at her wrist. The water turns thin orange and coppery. Beatrice’s hands shake.

“Are you alright, kleyntshik?” he asks, voice low and quiet. He is still supposed to be mad at her, but he asks all the same. He carefully walks towards Beatrice, but hesitates as she retches. Her throat burns as the lemon and passionfruit rises. She coughs, and vomits into the sink. Saliva and bile drips down her chin. Her palms are clammy, and she has to grip the counter for balance. She flinches when Konrad rests his hand on her shoulder.

“They just grabbed a man off of the street.” she mutters, staring down into the sink. “They were beating him where everyone could see. He grabbed my wrist, and I didn’t do anything.”

Konrad does not say anything. He quietly runs a cloth under the sink, then wrings it out. He carefully lifts Beatrice’s chin and wipes at the mixture of saliva and vomit that rests there. Beatrice half-heartedly tries to help, but her hand is shooed away. Konrad’s mouth is set in a straight line, and his gaze is fixed. But he blinks quickly, too quickly, and his nimble fingers shake. He lives with this news every day. His people snatched and murdered, while he watches, helpless, from a castle built on a dead family’s fortune. He wants to be numb to it.

Beatrice cannot stand lying to him a moment longer. He shoulders through enough as it is.

“I’m not trained.” she whispers.

Konrad stops cleaning her face. His dark eyes slowly skate up to meet hers. His expression does not change a bit.

“What?” His voice is quiet. He is still.

No, not still. Tensed.

Beatrice’s eyes are heavy with tears ready to spill, her bottom lip is quivering. “MI6 wanted someone expendable. I don’t mean anything to them.”

Konrad steps back. It is like watching a cup spill; slow enough to register the movement, but too fast to stop. His eyes grow wide, and his jaw clenches. He lowers his hand.

“I’m eighteen.” says Beatrice. “Albert’s almost nineteen. Claudette’s twenty-one.”

“Oh no.” Konrad groans, his face in his hands, and begins to pace around. “Oh, no, no, no, no. Gott, sag mir dass sie leugt.”

His frantic pacing, his worried whispers, it is his panic and his fear. It is the recognition of a deep lie, and it sends silent tears rolling down Beatrice’s cheeks. She runs a hand through her hair, scrunching up her fist, biting her tongue, but she cannot stop. It is her fault; she is the burden to him.

He stops pacing. “Were you ever going to tell me?” He sets off again, walking around and around in little circles.

“You’re children.” he says. “You’re just children. Christ, I’m babysitting you! That’s what this is, they’ve sent you here while the grown-ups play at real war. Pass auf diese nutzlose Maedchen auf, Eugen. Lass sie nicht sterben, Eugen. Stellen Sie sicher dass Sie Ihren Job richtig machen, Eugen.”

Beatrice summons enough strength to speak. “I can understand you, Eugen—”

Konrad throws his glass against the wall. “Ich weiss verdammt dass du mich verstehen kannst!”

Glass sprays across the room with a musical shatter. Beatrice shrieks and throws her arms over her face. A cut opens along her cheek.

Konrad stares at what he has done. Blood drips down Beatrice’s jaw, hanging for a moment, before dropping onto her pale collarbone.

“Oh god.” He grabs the wash cloth and moves to wipe her cheek. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Oh god, let me see; I’m so sorry—”

Beatrice slaps his hand away. Her cheek throbs, the crimson jarring against her pale skin.

“Don’t help me.” she says. “You’ll only make me feel worse.”

“Beatrice, I threw a glass at you.”

“And I lied to you.” Beatrice wipes away the blood with the back of her hand, and holds it up for him to see. “Look. Clean.”

She does not want him to apologise to her. She does not want him to help her. They should be equal now. Eye for an eye, joy for the truth, blood for lies.


	9. Operation Mozart

Konrad showers Beatrice with apologies. Her makes her tea, he offers to make dinner in her stead, he tries his best not to row. Beatrice begs him to stop. She does not need his apology. He has nothing to apologise for. She covers the scar on her cheek with make-up, and goes about as if it never happened.

It is in the early grasps of spring, only a few days after the incident, when she comes to a decision. Not about Konrad, not about their argument, but about something else entirely. Something she swore to herself she would do everything in her power to push away. The mission. She had told herself before leaving that partaking in it would bring her no good. And with Bohm’s threat looming over her head, doing anything illegal at all should be out of the question. But the situation is different now. People are disappearing. There are people under this roof that need her to act. The war needs her to act. Now.

Beatrice takes to sitting on the couch upside down, notebook on her stomach, eyes closed, legs crossed over to stop her skirt from slipping. Albert comes down one evening and finds her like this. His hair sways as he tilts his head questioningly.

“Bee, what are you doing?”

“Thinking.”

“Upside down?”

“Makes it easier for the thoughts to find my brain.”

“Ah.”

Albert, grinning shiftily, sits down beside her. Beatrice huffs and opens her eyes.

“Anything?” asks Albert.

“No.” Beatrice groans and rubs her face. “I’m going to feel really dizzy when I sit up, aren’t I?”

With help from Albert, and a minute of a ferociously pounding headache, Beatrice manages to sit up straight and flip open the notebook.

“I have no idea what I’m supposed to do,” she says. “MI6 didn’t give me any leads. They just sort of told me to wander in and do my worst.”

“Well,” says Albert slowly, thoughtfully. “You work in the same buildings as Goebbels, yeah?”

“Yes.”

Albert shrugs. “Why not break into his office? Pilfer through his things, pinch a few documents, leave something in his cognac?””

“Well, that’s good on paper.” says Beatrice. “But getting into his office in the first place is almost the entire battle, and I’ve no idea how to do that.”

The siblings go silent, racking their brains for ideas. Any idea will do; it is better than nothing at all. Beatrice can not possibly hope to sneak inside before he arrives, or after he leaves. Security is far too strong, and she would be discovered immediately. There is that brief moment where he leaves in the middle of the day for meetings in the Chancellery, but there is still the matter of the secretaries. No, she will need something that will keep them all out of the way. But how on earth could she do that?

Then Albert sits up straight. His eyes flash bright and sharp; he has an idea.

“Do you remember when I went to Italy for a year to live with mama?” he says.

“Fondly.”

“Ha, ha,” he says drily. “Right, so there was this kid, Luca, I think I told you about him. Tall, skinny kid, bright red hair? Atrocious English, but—”

“Get to the point, Albert.” says Beatrice.

Albert grins. “Sorry. Anyway, we’d go over to his house and plot ways to sneak into the kitchen and steal chocolate when the cook wasn’t looking. There was an old network of trenches from the first war about ten minutes from his house. Once or twice, we’d find an old grenade that was faulty; it’d been tossed but didn’t explode. We’d tie a string to one end, and the other to a door knob. No explosion, but it made the loudest bang, and it’d keep everyone’s head turned for a couple ‘a minutes.”

Beatrice squints at him, lips slightly parted, and her brows furrowed. There’s a beat of silence.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“....dyslexia?”

Beatrice rolls her eyes. “You’re asking me to set off a bomb in the propaganda ministry Albert. That’s mad, I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can!” says Albert brightly. “Set off the bomb somewhere far from Goebbels’ office, sneak in while the alarms are going off, then sneak back out into the evacuation. Simple.”

Beatrice bites her lip. It is simple in theory, but so much less so when you are the one actually being tasked with it. She assumes that MI6 went through a similar brainstorming process back in England. Safety and logic don’t matter if you’re not the one in danger.

“Alright,” she says, rubbing her tired face. “Lets say we go with this plan. How am I supposed to find a grenade to set off? It’s not as if they’re just lying around.”

“Eugen could find one, couldn’t he?” says Albert. “He knows people, he’s rich, he’s lived here longest.”

“What is Eugen looking for?”

The pair spins around. Konrad is standing behind them, leaning against the dining table with his arms crossed over his chest. He raises an eyebrow.

“A grenade.” says Beatrice. “I want to break into Goebbels’ office, and I need a diversion.”

Konrad slowly closes his eyes and lets his head loll back in thought. Beatrice can see his teeth grinding, his fingers fidgeting and uncurling.

“You want,” he says slowly. “To set off a bomb in the middle of one of the most protected buildings in Europe.”

“Don’t say it like that,” says Albert. “Bee works in there; how hard can it be?”

“A lot harder than you think.” Eugen opens his eyes and scowls down at the siblings. “Not only will finding a grenade be difficult, its illegal for civilians to be in possession of military grade weapons. Then there’s the matter of actually planting the bomb, detonating it, and not being blown up in the process, all without being seen.”

“Well that’s what a plan is for, isn’t it?” says Albert.

Konrad sighs. “God, you’re annoying.”

“Eugen, I need to do something,” says Beatrice. “I can’t sit around here forever and wait for information to land in my lap.”

How much she has changed since that day after the bombing. Seeking out a mission that is sure to kill her.

But Konrad relents. He looks as if he is withholding anger as he drops into the armchair, and looks at Beatrice and Albert expectantly. And they begin to plot.

Beatrice has the brilliant idea of configuring a sound bomb from a faulty grenade. Such a device would give her time to plant it, escape, and go about the rest of her day as if everything were normal. She sketches out a simple blueprint. A standard grenade, nix the safety pin. All she will have to do is link a wire to where the pin should go, remove the explosives, and attach a timing mechanism. Anything would do; an old watch, an alarm clock. After that, all that would be left to do is leave the bomb somewhere away from Goebbels’ office, and wait for it to go off.

“I know a man who works in a munitions factory.” says Konrad. “He can source a faulty grenade for us. Until then, you need to take notes Beatrice. Important routes, times, ideal places to plant the bomb.”

It is risky. Hell, it’s more than risky, it’s practically suicide. But the thrill of tinkering, of sneaking, of plotting, it triggers something in Beatrice. To run her hands over tools, feel metal beneath her skin, the grit and grime of it all. She cannot place what emotion it is, and settles on pride. But even that is not quite right.

The task that lays ahead is a different matter altogether. Taking note of the thousand and one details that can shatter their plan is not even nearly the same thing as fiddling with a bomb. The idea of someone seeing her notes, someone getting suspicious, someone finding out what she is doing, that is what makes her hands shake most of all. And Bohm. Oh god, she hasn’t even thought of what Bohm will do if he catches her. She promised him that she would not do anything.

But he promised her that he would not try back out of their little deal. And yet he sent Steiner and Gestapo agents to search the house and arrest her. And when that proved futile, he searched it himself. The snide little comments and asides, the threats, they are not the marks of an honest man. Beatrice is not the only one breaking her promises.

“What if he finds out though?” she thinks. “What if? What if the worst happens, and he puts you behind bars before you can cry ‘nicht schuldig?’”

That waiter is behind bars. So many more just like him are as well. If this war carries on for much longer, thousands more will be in the same position. Isn’t it selfish? Selfish not to risk one’s own life when one is in a position of power, to save many more?

Isn’t it?

And so the note taking begins.

Beatrice writes down times. Routes. Locations. People.

The secretaries arrive earliest, at anywhere between eight and half past. They take the main entrance, sometimes in groups, sometimes alone. At eight thirty Rosalind arrives with Dietrich, who Beatrice has discovered is one of Goebbels’ junior advisors. Adenauer arrives at quarter to nine every morning. He takes a side entrance, claiming headaches from the echoing noise in the main halls. Goebbels arrives at nine o’clock every morning through the main entrance, limping up the stairs and through the library where everyone can see him. It is like a parade. Here is your king, now bow down why don’t you?

Monday and Tuesday are typical days. Paperwork to fill out, phone calls to make, reports to fix. Beatrice offers to shift papers too and from the upstairs offices, an undesirable task, as it often requires interacting with Goebbels himself. But Beatrice needs an excuse to be upstairs, even if it does mean having to talk to the little minister.

Everything shifts dramatically on Wednesday, and to Beatrice’s delight, it is for the better. Two secretaries from Goebbels’ office lose their husbands in the same battle, and leave to take care of the funerals. Another comes down with the flu, and another again is fired for spilling coffee on Goebbels’ letters. With such a shortage in workers, Beatrice is temporarily moved upstairs. Her notebook fills even faster than before. On Wednesdays, Goebbels walks through the gardens with his wife and children for at least half an hour, before going straight to the Chancellery. A whole two hours when he is away from his office!

Thursday and Friday come and go, and still Beatrice is the only worker upstairs. It is pleasantly quiet when she is the only one there. She has a view of the gardens, and the large windows let in a gorgeously warm breeze, and golden sunlight. The melody of chirping birds, rumbling cars, and clicking heels is a juxtaposition in itself, but somehow satisfying.

Saturday comes, and two new secretaries have been found to fill in the gaps. Beatrice is shunted downstairs again. And with her, the knowledge of the innermost workings of the propaganda ministry. She has everything she needs.

It is on Sunday when Konrad comes home with a small wooden box in his arms. He pries it open in the middle of the kitchen table with the other three crowding about. Claudette, who has also been filled in on the plan, waits with just as much anticipation, perhaps even fear. She lingers a step away, knowing what device lays in front of her.

“You’re lucky my contact managed to smuggle this out,” says Konrad. “He very nearly got caught doing it, so you’d best not ruin it.”

Gently, Beatrice reaches for the grenade. It is no bigger than a goose egg, dark grey, and criss-crossed by squarish bumps.

The pin is still attached. Beatrice goes white.

“What?” asks Konrad. “What’s wrong?”

“The pin,” says Beatrice, staring at the curved piece of metal. “It’s still attached to the grenade.”

Konrad frowns. “Meaning what, exactly?”

Beatrice huffs. She sets the grenade down inside of the box and puts the lid back on, as softly as she can.

“Do you know how a grenade works?” she asks. “When you pull out the pin, it explodes. I need the pin already detached, but the grenade unexploded. I specifically said that it needs to be faulty for this to work.”

“Where did you want me to find a faulty grenade?” asks Konrad. “Did you expect me to go digging through Argonne?”

“Alright, stop it.” Claudette mutters. “Beatrice, couldn’t you take the grenade apart and take out the pin yourself?”

Beatrice stares at the little explosive in her hands. True, she is an engineer, but she her experience with military grade weapons is limited. She works on planes and cars, not grenades and guns. But no one else in this house has any engineering experience.

Maybe she can do it. She’s fiddled with grenades once or twice. How hard can it be?

“Yes,” she says. “I can do it. But not here. Somewhere outside.”

Konrad grabs his coat. “I know somewhere private,” he says. “We can all go; you two need fresh air. Albert, you hold the tools. Claudette, perhaps some bandages and a cloth. Just in case.”

That is not a particularly reassuring remark. Beatrice briefly wonders what it would be like to have her fingers blown off by a faulty grenade. Would it be ironic? She is so far from the battlefield, but she is killed by a bomb that she chose to meddle with. She’s asking to be hurt.

The drive out of down feels like hours, when it cannot be any more than thirty minutes. Beatrice keeps a sturdy hold of the box that holds the grenade. When they drive over pot holes, she lifts it off of her knees in the hopes that the little bomb will not roll around.

Konrad turns onto a small dirt road, winding and gravel laden. They are far out of the city now, and the only looming structures are the gargantuan pines that shield them from the view of anyone who might be passing along the main road. The tiny stones click against the bottom of the car, and everyone of them makes Beatrice jump. When the car comes to a stop, she holds the box out in front of her as if it might bite her. Every movement is calculated. She places her feet carefully, stepping around the sticks, pretending that they are mines just as dangerous as the bomb in her hands. Claudette walks beside her, a steady hand on her shoulder. Beatrice’s skin sears where her fingers make contact.

They come to a small cottage, abandoned and dark. The gabled roof is missing tiles in several places, and thick cracks run across the dusty, grimy windows. Inside, meters and meters of cobwebs are strung from every corner, making Claudette’s hand shake. A small kitchen is nestled in the corner, its cupboards long empty, and the sink rusted over. It smells of stale, coppery water, and the damp, dank things that lurk in the depths of a swamp. A funny little image comes to Beatrice’s mind, a still shot from a film she watched not that long ago. The dwarves cottage from Snow White, before the young princess begins to clean it. The similarity does nothing to calm Beatrice’s racing heart.

Beatrice sets the box down in the middle of the splintered table and draws up a chair beside it.

“Are you sure you can do this?” asks Albert, hoisting the toolbox onto the table. “You’ve only worked with grenades a few times.”

Beatrice purses her lips, staring at the little bomb. “It’ll be alright. I know what I’m doing.”

She picks out the smallest screwdriver and carefully reaches for the grenade.

“Wait.”

Eugen’s eyes flicker between Beatrice and the grenade in front of her. His hand is curled under his chin.

“If you’re going to take the pin out,” he says. “How will you know that the grenade won’t blow up in your face?”

Beatrice squares her jaw. “I won’t.”

“But if it does blow up,” he says, “You won’t be able to…”

Beatrice nods. Then with a grim smile, she says, “You might want to stand back then.”

Albert’s shoulder’s visibly tense as he leans against the counter. His eyes are locked onto the grenade as Beatrice pulls away at the striking pin. Bit by bit, minute by minute, pieces of metal are strewn across the table. Distant memories of working with British equivalents of this model come back to her. This pieces detaches here; this piece can’t be removed with a screwdriver. Her fingers move easily, as nimbly as if she were playing the violin. Then the time comes for her to remove the pin.

There is a particular order that a grenade is constructed, and so there is a particular way that it needs to be taken apart. Just by looking at the layout of the grenade, Beatrice can tell that removing the striker spring before the pin will be near impossible. It would be safer with the spring gone first, but she is working on a German model with which she does not know the details of. She is risking compromising the entire device. Just by tampering with the grenade she is weakening it. The method she knows will work is also the method that can kill her. The pin needs to come out first.

She looks up wryly. “I need one of you to help me.”

A sadistic sort of amusement rises up in her. All three of them have shuffled backwards subconsciously upon hearing her voice. She pushes the amusement down.

“With what?” asks Albert, voice tentative.

“I need to remove the pin,” says Beatrice. “But once I do that, the only way to stop the grenade from exploding is by holding down the striking lever. I can’t take out the spring and hold the lever down at the same time.”

She looks from Albert to Claudette, to Konrad, back to Claudette, back to Albert. They are silent. They look everywhere except for her.

“I need someone to hold down the lever.” Beatrice says quietly. “Otherwise this has all been pointless.”

No one moves. No one breathes.

Until Konrad warily steps closer. He curves his long fingers over the pin and drops into the seat beside Beatrice.”

“You cannot let go,” she says. “Once I take out the pin, you’ll have to hold on tight.”

Konrad nods. “Or we’ll die.”

Beatrice swallows thickly. “Right. Or we’ll die. Ready?”

“Ready.”

She pulls out the pin.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four—

Nothing happens.

Konrad gives a sigh of relief. Beatrice is not so gleeful. She is still yet to remove the striker pin. This is where it can all go wrong, where her tools can slip, she can let the spring unwind, and the grenade will detonate without warning.

Every sensation is magnified as the room falls into a taut silence. Beatrice can feel the sweat slick against her palms, the click of the metal as it turns underneath her tools, Konrad’s bated breath and trembling hand.

The spring is exposed. All she has to do is take it out.

“Beatrice,” Konrad murmurs. “My hand is cramping.”

“Just a minute,” she whispers, leaning closer to see the spring.

Konrad groans and shifts. “Come on, kleyntshik…”

“Twenty seconds, it’s nearly there.”

For a moment, her eyes flick to Konrad’s hand. It is pale yellow and white at the knuckles, and it shakes so hard that the grenade begins to wobble. She steadies his hand with one of her own.

“Nearly there,” she says. “It’s coming loose.”

There is a tiny pop. Konrad jumps, and Beatrice grabs his hand.

“It’s out,” she breathes. “You can let go.”

Konrad hesitates for a moment. He keeps one hand on Beatrice’s arm as he stands up. Then slowly, he uncurls his fingers. He skitters backwards, and the room holds a collective breath. Cobwebs do not waver. Spiders do not crawl. The dust does not settle, and the birds do not chirp, because everything in a mile radius is waiting to see whether this little grenade will explode.

And still, nothing happens.

Beatrice sighs in relief and closes her eyes. Albert pumps his fist in the air, and Claudette laughs nervously. Konrad kisses the top of Beatrice’s head.

“You’re brilliant,” he says. “Absolutely brilliant.”

Konrad and Albert gravitate outside, passing cigarettes between them, while Claudette remains perched on the counter. Beatrice can feel her eyes on the top of her head as she works. The jolt in her stomach is becoming more and more frequent with each passing day. With that jolt, there grows an ever rising hatred. But not at Claudette. At herself. What would her mother think if she knew what Beatrice was thinking? It is unnatural, that is what Beatrice has been taught her entire life. So why is it happening to her? If it is so unholy, why is she plagued with these feelings? Hasn’t she attended church every Sunday? Hasn’t she prayed and believed with all her might? Is the crucifix around her neck worth nothing?

A new thought comes to her mind as she works. Perhaps it is not coincidence. God punishes sinners, that too is what she has been taught. As she has sinned. All those weeks ago, in the forests in France, hadn’t she killed those soldiers? She’d taken their lives without thinking twice.

Beatrice cannot shake the feeling that she has been cursed.

She unscrews the percussion cap and removes the chemical tube that provides the brief delay between trigger and detonation. She carefully fits the timing device, an old watch of Konrad’s, and sets it so that the detonator will not go off for another twelve hours. With any luck, this bomb will not go off until the next day at noon.

In accordance with Germany’s war economy, Beatrice is not being paid any more for going into work that Saturday afternoon. As far as everyone else is concerned, she is catching up on work that she has fallen behind in.

She drops behind her desk and throws her coat over the chair. Adenauer strolls out, cigarette between his fingers.

“I didn’t think you were coming in today.” he says.

“I’m doing the work I missed last week, sir,” she says. “When I was upstairs.”

“I’ll let you get on with it then,” he says. “How long are you planning on staying?”

Beatrice glances at the clock. “Until five. Not late.”

“Before you leave.” Adenauer dashes into his office, and returns with a small letter. “Would you deliver this upstairs to Dr Goebbels for me?”

Beatrice can hardly contain her glee. Running a letter upstairs means passing through the library, the centre of the propaganda ministry. It is the perfect place to leave the grenade, which is settled in the very bottom of her handbag. Good fortune smiles down at her, even if it does mean that she will have to talk to Goebbels.

In actuality, she does have work to catch up on. Missing even one day here leads to a mountain of paperwork. She cannot bear to imagine how much work Rosalind, who was out sick for half of last week, will have to do. The work is gruelling, exceedingly dull, and in the warm room Beatrice finds her eyes drooping. She accepts a cigarette from Adenauer as he leaves early.

At five o’clock, she slings her handbag over her shoulder and slips the letter into her pocket. It is just as empty upstairs as it is downstairs. Only Jutta, one of the newest secretaries, sits in the corner of the room.

Beatrice knocks on Goebbels’ door. She has done this a dozen times, but it never scares her any less. Walking into the office is like walking on a tightrope. She can practise and practise, but that does not change the fact that the drop is just as fatal each time.

Goebbels is standing at his bookshelf, scanning the volumes. “Letter from Adenauer?” He does not even turn around to address her.

“Yes sir.” Beatrice sets the letter down on the desk. She turns to leave, but Goebbels calls her back.

“Would you do me a favour?” he asks. “I’m tyring to reach a book on the top shelf, but I’m afraid my height doesn’t quite permit.”

Beatrice squints at him. “Sir, I’m shorter than you.”

“You’re also nimbler than I am” he says. “I can’t climb a chair.”

He shifts quietly, tapping his foot. His clubfoot.

Beatrice carries over a wooden chair and props it against the shelves. She allows Goebbels to steady her. She makes a mental note to thoroughly wash her hand, and her dress, when she gets home.

“Which one sir?”

“Volk ohne Raum.” he says. “It’s bright yellow I believe, by Hans Grimm. Horrid man, but intelligent all the same.”

“I wouldn’t know sir.”

Beatrice spots the yellow book and passes it to Goebbels. She climbs down at scurries for the door.

“Magdalen.”

Beatrice groans internally. Why can’t he just leave her alone already? But she turns around and forces a neutral expression onto her face.

“Sir?”

“Who else is downstairs at the moment?” he asks.

“It’s just me sir.”

He thinks for a moment before shaking his head and returning to the conversation. Beatrice cannot fathom what thought would’ve been running through her head, and decides she does not want to know.

“Don’t think that I have not noticed your work,” he says. “I wouldn’t consider myself an easy man to impress, but you’ve somehow managed it. Do yourself a favour and stay with this job for as long as possible.”

Beatrice grins nervously; she does not know how to feel about that. “Is that a…compliment sir?”

“Get out.”

“Yes sir.” She closes the door quickly and strides away.

Even if he weren’t a Nazi, he would still disgust her. More than once, she has heard of his past misadventures. A teacher from Freiberg, a fellow student from Essen, a pair of sisters from Bonn. And, most recently, a Czech actress. Konrad has told her that it was not unusual for rumours to circulate about the little doctor and some unfortunate young girl swept up by the glamour of an extramarital affair. Beatrice pushes such thoughts from her mind. She knows well enough not to trouble herself with that idea. Goebbels repulses her; he is the furthest thing from her mind.

The library is split level; the staircase that leads to the bottom floor looks out over the entire room. Bookshelves rise well above Beatrice’s head, and the tall windows illuminate the many thousands of dust particles that drift through the air. It is cold in here, and it is rare that anyone actually reads these books. Beatrice has come to the conclusion that it was built and furnished purely for aesthetic purposes, as most palaces are.

Beatrice moves among the shelves quickly. She picks the one closest to the entry hall. She shoves the grenade between two dust laden books on the bottom shelf. She feels the pulsations of the watch under her hand. They seem to align with her heartbeat, which slams into her chest again and again. As hastily as she has planted the bomb, she turns tail.

Monday morning arrives sour and cold. The day of. A momentous occasion. A vicious attack. It feels to Beatrice as if the clock hands have been dipped in tar. Whenever she looks at them, they have not moved an inch. Time is ticking at an agonizingly slow pace. Beatrice cannot decide whether that makes her feel better or worse.

At ten minutes to noon, she offers to deliver the days paperwork in lieu of Rosalind, who is hunched over her desk and clutching her stomach. Beatrice’s footsteps are magnified by the tiles and high ceilings. Every rustle of clothing, every little cough or intake of breath, every minute sound has been doubled and doubled again. Tiny spots dance in the corner of her eyes, but when she turns to look there is nothing there.

The secretaries eyes barely glaze over her. Goebbels offers only a curt ‘good morning’ and ‘thank you.’ If in five minutes someone were to ask them who it was that had delivered the paperwork for the morning, Beatrice doubts that any of them would be able to recall. All the better for her. As she slips into the private hallway adjacent to the office, she wants all heads to be turned away. She looks at the clock. Five minutes to go.

Three minutes. The hallway is silent. Only the melodic clicking of typewriters sneak under the door. But no explosion.

One minute. Beatrice’s heart hammers faster than a machine gun firing into a crowd. Her skin grows hot, her leg bounces.

Thirty seconds. God, she hopes this is going to work. She clutches at her necklace. Please work, please, please work.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six—

The building shakes as a deafening crack echoes on the marble walls. A screech emits from below. Panicked whispers drift out from the office. A soldier runs by Beatrice’s hiding place, hands wrapped around his gun.

Beatrice clenches her hands into fists; her heart soars. It worked.

Somewhere, faintly, an alarm begins to blare. Half a dozen figures push through the doorway, a short and limping figure at the front.

Go, go, go.

Beatrice slides into the office. She races past the desks, through the door, and into the abandoned office. She pulls open the top drawer and begins to flick through its contents.

“July fifteen, July sixteen, July—” Beatrice groans and slams the drawer shut. These documents are too old. She needs something new. She cans the desk for something better. There is a letter, half written and still wet with ink. She cannot copy that; it is not complete yet.

Then, a dark green folder catches her eye. It reads Operation Sea Lion.

Beatrice flicks it open and draws a blank sheet of paper closer. She scribbles the operation name across the top and begins to read.

Dr Goebbels

In regard to postponing the beginning of Operation Sea Lion, the question surrounding British morale has been raised. In the likely event that England should be under our control before the coming Christmas, we should expect to see the respective manner of work. The supremacy of our air force is our most valuable asset at this time, both in relation to firepower and morale. The propaganda we plan to begin dropping will need to be finalised and entirely published one week before the initial date, September 20th. Between then and now, the final touches will need to be placed and shipments should be put out. Prior to this date, we are expecting to authorize several bombing raids on the cities of London, Southampton, Bristol, Cardiff, Liverpool, and Manchester, and so the required flyers should be readily available for these events (I should expect by September 14, perhaps the 15th.) Further propaganda should be continued over the course of the next three to four months.

What is most important here is the quality of the propaganda delivered. We aim now, not to dissuade the English, but to destroy their morale altogether. In the wake of their retreat at Dunkirk their hope is as low as ever, but it is still of critical importance that the necessary components come together in time for the invasion. I put my trust in you that these flyers will be published and distributed to the Luftwaffe at least one week before the dates mentioned.

At the bottom of the letter, signed in thin black pen, is the signature of Adolf Hitler.

Beatrice has no time to gape at the autograph that dominates the lower half of the paper. Her pen flies across the page with the speed of one thousand race horses. She rolls the paper up, flips the folder shut, and races out of the office.

It is easy enough to slip into the onslaught of chaos; she can’t have taken more than two minutes to copy the letter. Dozens of secretaries, soldiers, and advisors race down the stairs. The alarms have really begun to cry now. Their wails split the air. Heels and elbows dig into Beatrice, she is jostled from side to side like a rag doll. No one takes notice.

Worker upon worker spills out onto the cobblestone courtyard. They jump to the side as soldiers rocket past. Every face is turned to the smashed windows of the library, the thin trail of smoke that curls and flitters against the bricks. Beatrice cranes her neck, and she feels her whole torso begin to shake as if she has been doused in ice.

“I forgot to take out the explosives.”

Half an hour passes. Half an hour of Beatrice leaning against the high stone walls with her head in her hands. She looks no different to the other hyperventilating secretaries, but it feels as if every inch of her heart and mind is tearing itself apart. She never meant to hurt anyone. That was not the plan.

The courtyard falls silent. The crowd parts down the middle. Four doctors dressed all in white solemnly carry a stretcher down the centre. A sheet has been thrown over the top. It is perfectly clean, save for one deep crimson stain.

“Oh my God,” she breathes.

Similar murmurs ripple across the cobblestones. Beatrice’s cheeks burn bright with shame despite the fact not that a soul here knows what she has done. Her stomach gives a sharp twist as a pale hand falls from under the sheet. Her breakfast rises in her chest. Her stomach heaves, and she turns away as the inside of her mouth goes bitter. It is nothing more than sour water though. She presses her head to the cool stones of the wall as gentle hands come down on her back. She thanks them and waves them away.

Another stretcher follows. This one is still screaming.


	10. Confessions

Albert convinces Konrad to let him travel alongside him to Malmedy to deliver Beatrice’s information . With some coaxing on her part, Konrad allows it. They have been gone for two weeks. It should have taken four days.

Every day, Beatrice comes home, hoping and praying as she opens the door that Albert will be in the kitchen rifling through the fridge, and Konrad will be at the table drinking and playing cards. And every day, she sees only Claudette.

It still makes her heart jump. The little twists in her stomach whenever Claudette enters the room, the urge to smile, then the confusion. She likes Claudette, of course she does. She is kind, she is gentle, and she is quietly happy all the time. But Beatrice is still struggling to convince herself that her feelings are not real.

It is the little things that catch her off guard. Things that she didn’t even know could make her blush. The way the sunlight glows in Claudette’s frizzy hair. The shade of her lips that is just a hint darker than her smooth skin. The little sketches she does, and how she accidentally leaves her book lying open to the newest drawing. They’re good drawings too. She has sketched Shoshana stretching across the piano, candles dancing across a dark backdrop, Albert’s calloused hands.

Beatrice works late these days. There is still rent to pay, groceries to buy, even if it is only for the two of them. It is a Saturday afternoon, when Beatrice takes her usual path from the U-Bahn, that a certain building catches her eye. She has seen the building before of course. It is on one of the main roads between the station and Konrad’s house. The Gedächtniskirche. It is a towering building built from greyish-brow brick, accentuated by dramatic arches on the rooves and windows. The spire sits high above the road, dozens upon dozens of feet tall. Above the main entrance sits a dark rose window.

It has been months since Beatrice has gone to church. True, she still prays every night before bed, and she wears the crucifix about her neck. But going so long without at least entering a church has unsettled her. It is not a matter of faith or worship, but more a matter of habit. She has often contemplated going to church in Berlin. But the Nazi’s, to no one’s surprise, are not tolerant of religion. They are yet to outlaw Christianity altogether, but those that are known to attend every Sunday morning are still side eyed with unwavering disdain.

So it is against her better judgement that Beatrice goes inside. Besides, there are things that she needs to get off of her chest.

The entrance is an elegantly long hallway. The curved ceiling and archways have been painted with deep golden, green, and blue geometric patterns. Many dozens of figures have been painted onto the walls; saints. Jesus Christ, the Virgin Mary, the Twelve Disciples and the like. The bright patterns of the ceiling are reflected in the dark red of the tiled floor. The church is nearly empty, and Beatrice does not like how loud her heels click. Her gaze turns upwards as she enters into the spire. It is twice as tall as the hallway is long, and just as beautiful. Tall windows far above her head let in natural light, yet shadows still cling to the edges of the room like cobwebs. The patterns continue here, swirling beside the windows, high and higher, until they blur together, and Beatrice can no longer determine the details.

“You’re a tad early for mass.”

Beatrice looks around. A man in dark priests robes stands under the archway, holding a Bible in his wrinkled hands.

“I’m just praying for a moment,” she says. “I can’t stay.”

“That is a shame,” says the priest, shaking his head. “We don’t seem to have as many followers as we used to. But that is the way of politics and religion I suppose.”

Beatrice shrugs. “People are more afraid of earthly authority than godly. It’s a little more immediate.”

The priest chuckles. “So it seems. Even some of the other priests have discussed leaving the church, if only for a little while. I myself have considered it of course, as a matter of personal safety rather than for my reputation. But for the moment, I am in no danger.”

“I’d like to feel the same way,” Beatrice thinks.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” says the priest, strolling forwards. “Not many people come to pray a short time before mass. Is something in particular troubling you?”

Beatrice hesitates to answer.

“I can’t tell anyone, remember?” he says. He holds his hands up as if to apologise.

Beatrice lowers herself into the pew. The priest sits across the aisle from her, his hands folded in his lap.

“I’m Father Berndt, if you were wondering,” he says.

“Magdalen.”

He shakes her head gently. “Now, this problem of yours,” he says. “You seem a little reluctant.”

“It’s…not easy to talk about,” says Beatrice. “I suppose most problems are like that though.”

“Indeed they are.” Father Berndt falls silent as he thinks. “I’m assuming you’re not Jewish. Not unless you’re that desperate.”

Beatrice shakes her head, smiling ever so faintly. “No. Not Jewish.”

“I thought not,” he says. “Is it some sort of crime that you’ve committed?”

Beatrice considers telling him what she has done. But that would mean opening the great floodgate that is her life in Berlin, and exposing her secret to a man she does not know. And her crimes are not the problem that she has in mind. She shakes her head.

“No? Good to hear,” says Father Berndt. “Thoughts of committing a crime perhaps? Or something that opposes our great Fuhrers regime?”

Beatrice detects a vicious undertone of scathing to Father Berndt’s remark, a virtue shocking for someone of his vocation. But he has said the right thing. Beatrice nods.

“Of course,” he says. “It seems that everyone these days in is disagreement with one law or another, but is too afraid to speak up.”

Beatrice does not know if his words are meant to hurt her, but they do all the same. She feels as if she has just been slapped in the face for no good reason. Her fear is not that of a regime. It is a fear of God.

“They’re afraid to speak up because it will kill them,” says Beatrice harshly. “The government brainwashes their children in believing what they want them to believe from a young age; drills it into them again and again. People don’t know what to believe, or what to do when they cannot turn a blind eye anymore.”

“And yet here you are,” says Father Berndt. “Turning to another power of authority, turning to God, for guidance. I take it then that your problem is in opposition with Christianity itself?”

Beatrice laughs dryly. “It’s in opposition of everything. Every country, every religion.”

Her voice echoes from the tall walls of the spire. She hates how sharp it sounds. How bitter. How defensive.

“I think I’m falling in love,” she says quietly. “With a woman.”

And there it is. The words she did not even know she has been waiting to say aloud. She feels an enormous weight lift off of her, like a demon being forced from her soul. She has a crush on Claudette.

She glances at Father Berndt, expecting a disapproving scowl. Instead, he is smiling faintly into the ceiling.

“You’re under the belief,” he says. “That loving a woman, truly loving a woman, goes against Gods wishes.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” says Beatrice. “Leviticus chapter eighteen, verse twenty-two. You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination.”

“Mathew chapter seven, verses one to two,” says Father Berndt. “Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you used, it will be measured to you. Christianity, before all else, is a religion of forgiveness and love. And if you have to ask for that forgiveness again and again, then so be it.”

“But them I’m just accepting my sin,” says Beatrice. “I wouldn’t be doing anything to stop it. It’ll be just as bad as doing it on purpose.”

Father Berndt smiles. “Murderers kill on purpose. Thieves steal on purpose. The thief that hung beside our Lord Christ on the cross begged for forgiveness for the first time in the last moments of his life, and it was given to him.”

New arrivals at the door stir the old priest from his seat. Beatrice stands too, it is time to leave. She has much to think about.

“Ask yourself, Magdalen,” says Father Berndt. “Without citing religion or politics, only morality itself, what is so wrong with loving a woman?”

Beatrice cannot answer him. He sees her blank expression and chuckles.

“It is difficult, I understand that,” he says. “But, let us remind ourselves; the world could do with a little more love right now. Don’t you agree?”

With those final words, the priest strides away to great the visitors at the door. Beatrice is left standing in the centre of the spire, Father Berndt’s words still echoing in her ears and on the old stones. Far above her, a tiny pinprick of light begins to push through the ashen clouds.

That same night, Beatrice and Claudette sit huddled around the dining table. A letter from Konrad and Albert has arrived in the mail.

Girls

I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the Allies have bombed the Berlin line. There’s only one line that runs from Berlin to Malmedy, so we’ve been stuck here for weeks. I considered travelling to France or Holland to catch a train from there, but I can’t risk smuggling Albert again without real papers. We can’t take a car, that means even more smuggling. The best we can do is wait for the line to be fixed. That could take weeks though, maybe months. With any luck, we’ll be back by the end of the month, mid-October at the latest. Until then, continue on with life as normal.

The encampment sent off your notes to MI6. Your government is starting to take measures, especially along the coastline. Nice job kleyntshik, but don’t do anything else until we get back.

And don’t worry. I used another contact of mine to deliver the letter (via car of course). Stay safe, and we’ll do the same.

Eugen (and Albert)

Beatrice can hardly breath through her relief. Weeks and weeks of panic, erased by this one letter. Thank God.

“Can you imagine them,” says Claudette with a grin. “Stuck in Belgium together?”

It is laughable, the thought of the two of them being trapped in another country with only one another for company. Beatrice can just see them having to share a decrepit hotel room together; barely enough space to move, and the ever energetic Albert wanting nothing more than to stretch his legs.

Two more weeks pass. Beatrice tells herself over and over again that the tracks are still being fixed. She hopes that is all that is keeping them. She lies awake at night, telling herself that they are fine, they are safe, they are going to come back.

“But they might not,” the little devil on her shoulder tells her. “They might get arrested. They might get tortured. They might get shot.”

“Shut up,” Beatrice says aloud into the darkness. The little voice goes away for a while. But they always come creeping back.

One night, towards the end of October, the Allies deem it necessary to launch another bombing raid on the city. Unable to hide in the U-Bahn like everyone else, the girls draw the blackout curtains tight, brew what little tea they have, and carry blankets into the sitting room. Both know that they will not sleep tonight.

Beatrice cannot help but watch Claudette out of the corner of her eye. Every time the faint whump of a bomb sounds, she blinks for just a fraction of a second longer. Her fingers, wrapped around her mug, are so long and slender, and the nails on the end are perfectly manicured. Her wild hair is pulled back into a rushed bun, and two escaping strands stick out and curl around her face.

“Can I ask you something?”

The words tumble out before Beatrice can stop them. She wants to slap her hand over her mouth and take it back. It’s too late.

“Of course you can,” says Claudette.

“Have you…have you ever been in love?” Beatrice asks. “I mean…in love. Unconditionally, fantastically, until death do us part?”

Claudette purses her lips, thinking. “Mm…I don’t know. Crushes, maybe. I don’t think I’ve been in love though. Why do you ask?”

Beatrice shrugs. “I don’t know. Just curious I suppose.”

“Why?” An excited grin spreads over Claudette’s face and she sits up straighter. “Are you in love?”

The hesitant smile is what gives it away to Claudette. She gasps. She crosses her legs and puts her chin in her hands. “Who is it?”

“It’s…uh,” Beatrice gulps. “…you. Maybe. A little bit.”

Claudette’s jaw drops. She stares wide-eyed at Beatrice, making her cheeks flush red.

“Me?” she asks. “You’re in love with…me?”

“Alright, love is much too strong of a word,” says Beatrice quickly. “It’s just a crush. And I obviously don’t expect you to have feelings back, and I don’t want you to feel awkward about it; I just needed to tell you to get it off of my chest, and now we can move on, and I—”

Beatrice jumps as Claudette kisses her on the cheek.

She jumps back, eyes as round as a marble. Neither girl moves for a moment, only staring at one another.

“I’m sorry?” says Beatrice. She touches her fingertips to her cheek. “I mean…what?”

“I kissed your cheek,” Claudette says matter-of-factly. “Why? Hasn’t anyone kissed you on the cheek before?”

Beatrice shakes her head. “Sorry, I’m still confused. Why…did you…kiss? Me? On the cheek?”

Claudette shrugs. “I don’t know. You said that you don’t expect me to have feelings for you in return, but I…I do. A little bit.”

Beatrice feels a giggle well up inside of her chest. It bursts out, sharp and high-pitched, and uncontrollable.

“What’s so funny?”

Beatrice shakes her head, struggling through her laughter. “I’ve been beating myself up for weeks.” she says, looking up to the roof. “Because I didn’t know what I was feeling, and you just…just kiss me on the cheek! And tell me that you might like me back!”

“Well, I do like you back,” Claudette says. “It’s only a crush, but it’s still something. A crush is something, isn’t it?”

Beatrice smiles, just a little one. “Yes. I suppose it is.”

The uncertainty between the two of them is electric.

“How…” Beatrice pauses, chewing on her lip. “How long have you liked me?”

“A little while,” says Claudette. “Do you remember when Albert and I got here, and I came up to your room to explain? Well, this is going to sound just vain of me, you just looked so…pretty. You were wearing a skirt and black tights, no shoes, and your legs were crossed over, and I just…didn’t know what to think.”

Claudette blushes, looking down at her lap. “Do...do you think I could kiss you again?”

“You didn’t ask me the first time.”

Claudette smiles. “I meant…on your lips.”

Beatrice turns bright red. Through the embarrassment, a hidden part of her was screaming yes, yes, do it, kiss her you moron. She turns to look at Claudette, only inches away. Beatrice has never realised what colour Claudette’s eyes actually are. They aren’t brown or black. They’re hazel, ringed with a thin curve of pale grey.

“Alright then.”

So Claudette leans forward and kisses her.

She can taste tea on her lips, and the sweet stickiness of her lipstick. With her eyes closed, all Beatrice can do is rest her hand on Claudette’s arm and kiss. A shiver in her stomach makes her pull back, just far enough so that their foreheads are touching. Their lips are parted, an inch away.

Beatrice giggles quietly. “I think I like you,” she whispers.

“I think I like you too.”

Their lips brush as they touch. It pulls Beatrice in, and she kisses Claudette once more. Claudette laughs into the kiss, and the sound makes Beatrice’s skin tingle and her hand clench, and dear god, isn’t this what she has wanted all along?

They fall asleep on separate couches that night. They talk and talk of quiet nothings, beautiful small talk, whispers of abandoned dreams and forgotten faces, until they slowly succumb to fatigue, fingers entwined, and loose smiles on their faces. Somewhere in the distance, Allied planes wheel away from the damage that they have done. 

Beatrice awakens early the next morning with her fingers still wrapped in Claudette’s. She turns her head to see Claudette barely awake, her dark curls tipped over her eyes.

“Hello,” says Beatrice.

Claudette smiles sleepily. “Morning. Or is it dawn?”

Beatrice studies the clock. “Five thirty.”

Claudette’s hands are warm. Beatrice squeezes them lightly, running her thumb over her neat nails. Claudette presses a kiss to the inside of her hand.

“I forgot to ask you something last night,” she says. “Have you ever been in love?”

Beatrice shakes her head. “Never. First time.”

“How does it feel for you? To be in love?”

Beatrice slides out from her blanket and sits with her back against Claudette’s couch. “It feels…its like sitting in a field full of flowers. There’s a warm breeze, and you can see for miles in every direction. The flowers are in every colour you can imagine, and everything smells of dew and honey. It’s colourful. Soft.”

She looks Claudette in the eye. “And perfect.”

Claudette traces her fingers in circles over the back of Beatrice’s hand. “Isn’t is strange to think that we’ve been living under the same roof for months, in love with one another, and never kissed until last night. It’s as if we’ve been…missing out on one another.”

Beatrice grins. “It does a little bit.”

Claudette sits up. “Since we’ve been missing out…can I kiss you again?”

Beatrice laughs. “That’s the most eager I’ve ever seen you. Did you really miss me that much when I fell asleep?”

“Well?”

“Of course you can kiss me, you idiot.”

Claudette gently tilts Beatrice’s face up to hers, and presses her warm lips against her mouth. Beatrice feels her hands trailing her hair, twirling a strand around her fingers.

The kiss hardens. Not by much, but enough for Beatrice to gasp in surprise. Claudette stops and pulls away.

“I’m sorry!” she says. “Was that too much?”

“No, it was fine.” says Beatrice. “Just a little…surprising.”

Claudette moves in slowly to kiss her again. Beatrice holds the back of her head, encouraging a kiss that was closer and stronger then before. Claudette cups her cheek, running her smooth fingers over the bone that juts out just below Beatrice’s eye.

“Petite abeille,” Claudette whispers. “Perfect.”

It is with reluctance that Beatrice leaves for work that morning. She descends into the dark U-Bahn and catches the train to Berlin Mitte. Here, in peak hour traffic, voice bounce from tile to tile like a disorganised orchestra. The bitter scent of cigarette smoke, heavy cologne, and copper fills the station.

It has started to rain when Beatrice emerges onto the street. She huffs; she has left her umbrella at home. She angles her head towards the ground and marches through it. Water drips down her glasses.

“You’re looking a little bedraggled, Miss Baumann.”

Beatrice pauses and looks to her left. Lurking in the shadow of an alleyway, with only the glowing end of a cigarette showing, Bohm’s voice emanates. He steps forward slowly, an umbrella over his head.

“I need to talk to you,” he says. “Now.”

Beatrice can walk away. There are people everywhere; he cannot touch her here. But she walks home alone, and he has surprised her once before already. He can get to her the minute she steps out of the station at Charlottenburg.

He offers his arm, and she has no choice but to take it. “Come on.” he says. “You’ll get sick in this weather.”

She despises their closeness. She can feels his arm through the many layers between them. Her shirt, her coat, his coat, his shirt. It is not enough. They are practically hip to hip, and still rain drips onto her shoulder.

They walk in silence until they reach his office. The soldiers snap to attention at the sight of him. Their arms jut out like branches, their chins turned up, heels together.

Beatrice shivers as Bohm takes hold of her forearm, and shakes off the umbrella. They are out of sight of the soldiers, and his charming demeanour disappears like a dandelion in the wind. Bohm’s grip is iron, and it pinches her skin. In these halls where he reigns almighty, he shows her no mercy. His gait quickens. Beatrice all but jogs to keep up with him.

“Sir,” she pants. “You’re going too fast.”

He tugs her forward sharply, but he does not slow his pace. They come to his office, as sweltering as ever. He shoves her into the seat in front of his desk, all without saying a word. He picks up the phone and dials a number as he puts it to his ear.

Whilst he waits, every possible scenario runs through Beatrice’s mind.

He knows about Albert and Claudette.

He knows Konrad is Jewish.

He talked to Father Berndt.

He knows something.

“Alexander Bohm,” he says into the phone. “For the adjutants office.”

There is a moment of silence before the line is connected with a small click.

“Donnersmann,” says Bohm. “Would you come up to my office?”

Beatrice cannot hear the adjutant’s reply, only muffled static, and the frustrating grinding of Bohm’s teeth.

“No, he can wait there,” says Bohm. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”

With another click, the line goes dead. Bohm drops into his seat and begins to pour a glass of water. Beatrice stares at the desk; hands clenched in his lap. His reserved actions give her hope that it is not serious. But she knows better than to put all of her eggs into one basket. She can never pick out what he is thinking.

“Provided that I don’t decide to arrest you,” says Bohm. “You will still go into work today. You will say that you had an unchangeable doctor’s appointment, and last night’s air raid prevented you from calling in to let anyone know.”

Beatrice begins to sweat. “Arrest me?” she says. “What for?”

There are a number of crimes that Bohm can reply with. Beatrice needs to know which one it is. But he only takes a sip from his glass, and smiles thinly at her. “You’re about to find out.”

Not knowing whether she will walk out of this office as a free woman freezes Beatrice to her chair. But there is still hope. Beatrice clings to it like a life raft. She cannot allow herself to wallow in panic. It will get her nowhere. Bohm feeds on her panic, revels in it. She needs a level head.

That is when the door opens, and the adjutant, Donnersmann, walks through.

He is the stark opposite of his boss. His is short, perhaps only Albert’s height, and with snowy white hair. Where Bohm is sharp and angular, he is rotund and fat. Even his glasses are round, perched on the end of his bauble nose.

“Miss Baumann, this is Haupsturmfuhrer Donnersmann,” says Bohm, gesturing to the adjutant. “Donnersmann, Miss Baumann.”

Donnersmann ignores the introduction. “What’s so important that you’ve pulled me out of a meeting?” he asks. His harsh tone, Beatrice realises, is what the two men have in common. A sharp distaste for being ordered about and interrupted.

“Here.” Bohm hands him an envelope. “Go talk to Goebbels and Adenauer. I need to know where this one—” He points to Beatrice. “Was on the day of the explosion in the propaganda ministry.”

Beatrice’s eyes go wide, but she quickly returns to an expression of neutrality. It has been months since the bomb, and she was sure she read that some poor Jew had taken the fall in her place. Why is he cornering her for it now?

“The propaganda ministry explosion?” she asks. “Sir, that was months ago. What does that—”

Bohm gives her a withering look, a stare that verges on a snarl. He looks ready to strangle her where she sits. Vicious and with any mercy. Beatrice falls silent.

“Goebbels isn’t working this morning,” says Donnersmann.

Bohm sharply looks at him. He runs his tongue over his teeth. “What?”

“Frau Goebbels went into labour last night,” says Donnersmann. “She gave birth only this morning. A girl.”

Bohm purses his lips. He takes a deep breath, and some of the colour begins to drain back into his shaking hands. His taps his long fingers against the desk, nails clicking. Beatrice wishes that she could read his mind.

“I see,” he drawls. “Very well. Talk to his adjutant; Schwagermann. And his head secretary too. Frau Fischer, Fritz, whatever her name is.”

Donnersmann is gone again as quickly as he arrived. Beatrice prays that whatever Schwagermann and Frau Fritsch tell him will be in her favour. She does not know how long she can withstand an interrogation with Bohm. Physically or emotionally. Konrad has told her that every soldier from London to Tokyo is petrified of him. He jokes that the only people not afraid of him are Katrin, and God himself.

As if he is searching her mind and stumbling upon her worry, Bohm’s chair squeals against the floorboards, and he stands up.

“We might as well make use of our free time,” he says, crossing the room.

Beatrice flinches, thinking that he will pause beside her. Instead, he walks straight past her and towards the door. He turns the lock with a heavy click, and slips the key into his pocket. All of the air in the room is sucked out as Beatrice’s exit is compromised. She stares straight ahead, resolving to only make the most necessary of movements, or speak only the most essential words.

“Do not patronize him. Do not anger him. Do not let him see how afraid you are.”

“And don’t give yourself away.”

“You asked why I am interrogating you in regards to the bomb,” says Bohm, walking over to her. “When it was two months ago.”

Beatrice’s whole body is ice as he places his hands on the back of her chair. She can feel a buzzing in the air, like static from a radio. He is not angry. He is going to toy with her. Make her second guess herself. Mock her. And that is just as dangerous as anger.

“It is true that a scapegoat was used,” he says. “And as I am not in the Schutzstaffel, I have limited say in who is interrogated, and who is arrested. I spent most of my time in the first few weeks attempting to have more…likely suspects investigated.”

Beatrice is well aware that he means her. She shudders to think how close she came to being investigated by an actual member of the Schutzstaffel, and not a general. And she bristles at knowing that Bohm is still trying to find ways around their deal. She needs to close that loophole before he slips through it.

“Eventually I grew tired of trying to convince the police to go after someone else,” he says. “And realised that if it was indeed you that planted the bomb, then I would be well within our little deal to arrest you.”

“Why wouldn’t you come after me first then?” asks Beatrice. “Getting someone else to arrest me isn’t part of our arrangement. You were trying to go back on your promise.”

Bohm’s hands tighten around the back of the chair. He inhales, exhales. Calm, composed. Do not get angry at her.

“You’re very clever, aren’t you?” he says.

“They made me a spy for a reason.”

Bohm laughs quietly at that; it is a low sound that Beatrice feels through the back of the chair. She bites the inside of her mouth, and lifts her chin. Don’t look scared.

“I didn’t plant that bomb,” she says. “It’s like that air raid. There’s no sense in endangering myself just to kill two people who, quite frankly, weren’t instrumental to the government.”

“Unless killing them was not your end goal,” he says. “Is it possible that the grenade was a diversion?”

Beatrice scoffs. “I wouldn’t know. I didn’t put it there.”

It seems like an age before Bohm reacts. He bends down until his cheekbone brushes hers, and his chin rests on her shoulder. Adrenaline buzzes through Beatrice’s blood.

“Prove it.”

Beatrice pulls her shoulder away, and turns to look Bohm in the eye. He tilts his head. He looks so innocent, so peaceful. Nearly unthreatening.

“What?” she breathes.

“Prove it,” he says. “Prove that you didn’t leave the grenade in the propaganda ministry.”

Beatrice looks about the room, as if she is searching for someone who will help her. But she is alone. And no one knows that she is here.

“How am I supposed to prove that I didn’t do it?” she says, looking back to Bohm.

“You’re clever, remember?” he says. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

He stands up, stretching his long legs, and slowly paces back to his seat on the other side of the desk. It cannot take more than ten seconds, ten seconds that Beatrice spends frantically searching her brain for something to convince him of her innocence.

She glances at him. There is his ghostly smile again, so small you might miss it. He knows that it was her, surely. So why is he playing with her like this? Why not just arrest her?

“Well?”

Beatrice shrugs. “I don’t know what you want me to tell you. I…I was delivering papers to Goebbels when the bomb went off, couldn’t you ask his secretaries, or—”

“I’m asking you, my darling.”

The sickly sweet endearment flares something in Beatrice. Her face does not change, but she longs to scowl. She hides it. Pushes the anger down.

“And I’m telling you, Alexander,” she says slowly. “That it wasn’t me.”

It is rare that anyone speaks back to Bohm in such a way. It is rarer still that anyone addresses him by his first name. He stands up, and as he moves, all of the light in the room is evaporated by his looming frame. He is twenty feet tall, skeletal thin, and his fingers transform into wicked sharp knives.

Beatrice recoils. His fingers are not knives. He is holding a knife.

She stands up, and is halfway across the room before she remembers that the door is locked.

“Fuck,” she whispers.

When she turns around, Bohm is on her side of the desk. He twirls the knife around his fingers.

“If you cannot prove that you did not do it,” he says. “Then I will need a confession from you. I’d rather it be quick and painless; I do hate cleaning blood out of my uniform.”

“You’ve gone mad,” says Beatrice breathlessly.

Bohm twirls the knife faster. “Well?”

Beatrice scans the room for a weapon, something to shield herself with. There is a vase twenty feet to her right, perched atop a small table. She can make that.

She and Bohm move at the same time. Beatrice’s fingers graze the porcelain, but a bony arm wraps around her midsection and throws her forwards. Her head rams into the wall, and she slides to the ground. White stars dance on black shadows at the edge of her vision. Bohm kneels in front of her and slams a hand down beside her head. The knife cuts through the air.

“Wait, wait, wait!”

The knife sinks into the wall, and she screams.

Beatrice’s breaths are trembling. Tears drip from her eyes, leaving streaks across her face. She slowly turns to see how close the knife came to embedding itself in her skull. If she were to crane her neck, her nose would brush the blade.

Bohm’s breath is hot against her neck. One hand is still on the knife, the other locks cruelly around her collar.

“Talk,” he hisses.

“I…I offered to deliver the papers,” she whispers. “I walked through the library, but I wouldn’t have gone that way if I knew that a bomb was going to go off.”

Bohm frowns. “Why would you take the papers?” he says.

Beatrice’s heart soars. He is starting to believe her; she can feel it. If he is questioning her motives, after being so sure of her guilt, then he is doubting her involvement.

“Rosalind felt sick,” she says. “She looked like she was going to throw up, so I told her that I would go upstairs for her.”

Dropping Rosalind’s name works. There is a moment where all Beatrice can hear is Bohm’s quiet breathing. He climbs to his feet and flexes his fingers. She shakily exhales; the knife is still beside her head.

“Get up Miss Baumann,” says Bohm quietly.

Beatrice cannot move. A few miscalculated inches, and that gleaming knife would have sunk through her flesh, through bone, and embedded itself in the centre of her brain. She would have died instantly.

“I said get up.”

She could have been killed.

Bohm huffs and grabs her forearm. She can only look blankly as he pulls her up and lowers her back into the chair in front of his desk.

“Well done,” he says placidly. “You’re one step closer to convincing me. As soon as Donnersmann comes back with those statements, and after I talk to Rose, I’ll leave you alone.”

Beatrice flinches as he plucks her glasses from her face. But he is only cleaning them; they are smeared with tears.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m not going to tell her that you’re a suspect. I’m very good at getting people to tell me things without them knowing about it.”

Beatrice does not trust his promises in the slightest. She knows then that she has let something slip, and that it has endangered her, but she cannot place what it might be. But Bohm is not kneeling over her with a knife, and she is one step closer to freedom, so she stores that little thought away in the back of her mind where she can worry about it later.

The phone rings shrilly, making the both of them jump. Bohm slips Beatrice’s glasses back onto her face before answering it.

“Alexander Bohm,” he says. “Oh, Katrin. Hello.”

The room goes silent, and Beatrice cannot hear Katrin. Bohm’s face, a small smile upon hearing his wife’s voice, turns white. His dark eyes go wide, and he speaks in a hushed voice.

“Are you sure?” he says. “I thought she was only…yes Kätzchen . I realise that. Does she want me there…alright, I’ll be half an hour, do I…she does?”

Beatrice cannot decipher the conversation, but she knows that it cannot be good. Bohm turns paler and paler by the second. He paces in small circles, his boots clicking against the floor.

“I…yes, I’ll do that.” he says. “It’s only a short walk. I’ll see you soon then.”

The line clicks dead, and Bohm hangs up. He holds the table for balance, and quite looks as if he is about to topple over.

“Are you…alright?” Beatrice asks carefully.

Bohm breathes deeply. “You’re close friends with Rose, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“That explains it then,” he says, muttering the words. “I’m guessing that she hasn’t gotten around to telling you that she is pregnant, has she?”


	11. Familial Matters

Beatrice does not understand what he has said until he says her name. That is when it is realised to her.

“Pregnant?” she says. “Is she really?”

And despite current company, she laughs softly.

“I had no idea,” she says. “How far along is she?”

“Well, until a few moments ago, I thought it was five months,” says Bohm. “However, she has just gone into labour, and the doctors have just told Katrin that she is in fact not five months pregnant, but rather, almost nine.”

That sort of lie in itself is enough to anger a father. But something that Rosalind said to her a long time ago comes back to Beatrice.

“But she only got married in June,” she says. “She would have been three months pregnant already.”

“Meaning that my grandchild is conceived out of wedlock,” says Bohm darkly. “Listen to me very carefully Miss Baumann. I do not care about these sorts of things, but there are people out there who do. If the newspapers, if your bosses, find out about this, Rose will be ruined. You will not say a word to anyone, including Herr Konrad.”

Beatrice also has nothing against a child being conceived out of wedlock. She herself is one of those children. And the last thing she wants is to smear Rosalind’s reputation with a scandal like this one.

“Of course I won’t tell anyone,” she admonishes. “I’m not a monster.”

Bohm scowls. “I hope not, for your sake. Now come on, she’s asked for you to come visit her.”

“She has?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Bohm pulls his coat and cap off of the rack, barely waiting for Beatrice to keep up with him. On their way out, they run into Donnersmann.

“Leave the notes on my desk, I’ll read them later,” says Bohm, not stopping his stride. “Lock the door on your way out.”

“Yes sir.”

They spill out into the courtyard, where it has really began to bucket down. They have no umbrella this time, and keep their heads bowed as they walk through the torrential downpour. Beatrice is grateful to slip into the car.

And what a car it is too. Beatrice realises just how gorgeous it is once she has cleaned her glasses of raindrops. A 1934 Packard Twelve, shimmering black and sleek. It is as well kept as any of the immaculate general’s possessions. When the engine starts, it is a smooth purr, just as deep and baritone as its owner’s voice. These cars are not cheap by any means. How Beatrice would love to dig out the engine, to fiddle and fix, to tinker with every piece of machinery here. It is an engineer’s playground; a dream.

The hospital is only ten minutes away, but the drive feels so much longer than that. Bohm’s typically collected and quiet manner has been punctuated by hushed muttering and restless fidgeting. Beatrice keeps her hands folded in her lap and picks at the soft skin of her palm until it stings. It is unbearable sitting this close to him and having to be so still. So patient. So unresponsive.

Beatrice knows that Bohm is a revered, albeit terrifying man; especially amongst the Wehrmacht. But she has never quite realised just how extensive that revere is. At the hospital, off-duty soldiers stand at attention. Doctors step to their side and nod in respect. Patients and visitors even salute or call greetings of ‘Heil Hitler’ as he passes. And Beatrice, who walks in the wake of it all, feels as if a heavy wave is washing over her. The patriotism of it all, the nationalism, is sickening. The conflict that these salutes represent are being thrown about so casually, to a man who does not deserve respect from so much as the lowest criminal.

It does not show on his face, but Alexander Bohm revels in the fame. The power.

An eager doctor leads them down the hall into Rosalind’s ward. It is a private room, cool and dark. A wide window overlooks the sweeping hospital gardens, where Beatrice can see young children scrambling across a neglected playground. Rosalind lies atop the blankets, newly dressed in a hospital gown, and a bored look on her face. Dietrich, Katrin, and Johannes are already inside. As Bohm stoops to kiss his daughter on the forehead, Beatrice sinks into the chair beside Johannes.

“This is awful,” says Rosalind. “It’s only been three hours, and I’m sick of it already.”

“Try doing it twice,” says Katrin.

“I wouldn’t recommend having a second, Rosa,” says Bohm. “Second children never end up quite as good as the first, and it’s just far too much work—”

Johannes gawks at his father. “Papa!”

Bohm grins and ruffles his sons hair. “Only a joke. The both of you were equally difficult children.”

Rosalind is about to retort, but another contraction overcomes her. She groans and clutches Dietrich’s hand until her knuckles go white.

“Already, maybe not so hard next time Rosie,” says Dietrich. “That hurt—”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Beatrice and Johannes snigger behind their hands. Even Bohm struggles to contain an amused smile.

The bickering subsides over the next several hours. Rosalind’s contractions are vicious. The doctors are intrusive. They are ushered in and out of the room over and over again. Until finally, just as the clock is striking midnight, Beatrice, Bohm, and Johannes are shoved out of the room for good. Only Katrin and Dietrich are allowed inside.

Bohm’s leg hops up and down like a metronome. He flinches every time a scream escapes through the gap under the door. He holds his head in his hands and mutters to himself as the minutes tick away without him. Johannes is stony faced and silent. He paces backwards and forth until his father pulls him into a seat. Beatrice’s is completely still. She does not know how to feel. She is still reeling from that morning. The image of the knife flying towards her head replays over and over again. It is hard to believe that only twelve hours ago, Bohm was ready to kill her, and now he is back to playing the polite family man.

At 1:42 that morning, on the thirtieth of October, the baby is finally born.

Rosalind and Dietrich name him Wilhelm Alexander Muller. Wilhelm for Dietrich’s father, and Alexander for Rosalind’s. He is the spitting image of Dietrich. A head of ebony hair, warm brown eyes, and almost non-existent lips. Rosalind holds him close against her chest. Both she and Dietrich smile and whispers at the little bundle that is their newborn child. Katrin’s eyes shine, and Bohm cannot contain his glee. It’s enough to make Beatrice smile.

In the early hours of the morning, Johannes delivers hot drinks all around. Beatrice is grateful for the warmth of the mug, and the energy it gives her. Even if it is coffee. She takes a sip—oh god, it’s still awful.

“Can I ask something of you, Magdalen?” says Rosalind sleepily.

“I daresay you can try.”

“We’ve been thinking.” Rosalind props herself up on her elbows. “And…well, I know we’ve only known you a short while, but I feel as if we still know you quite well. I can’t say I’ve got a good many friends, and certainly not as good friends as you.”

“That’s lovely of you to say,”

“Good,” says Rosalind. “Because we’d like you to be godmother.”

Bohm chokes on his coffee. Katrin pats him on the back as he splutters.

Beatrice searches for the right words to say. Part of her is honoured with the responsibility of being this child’s godmother. In any other circumstances, she might even be thrilled. But no good can come from accepting the position. Before all else, before the good of Rosalind and Dietrich, she has a job to do. A mission. Wars must be fought, and someone must win eventually. Either the child loses its godmother, or the godmother loses its child.

“I…are you sure?” says Beatrice. “I mean, I’m honoured of course, but…you’ve not known me that long at all.”

“Go on Lena, say yes,” says Dietrich, beaming. “We know you well enough.”

Beatrice looks around the room. Almost every one of them is looking at her expectantly. Bohm is too, but not with the same eagerness and joy. The best he can do is look apathetic.

“Well,” Beatrice says. “If you’re sure.”

Rosalind squeals with laughter. She and Dietrich throw their arms around her.

After very little coaxing on Rosalind’s part, Bohm has pulled the right strings and gotten Beatrice off of work for the rest of the week. Beatrice spends the next few days shuffling belongings around, delivering coffees, and carrying Wilhelm around the garden to let Rosalind and Dietrich sleep. On Saturday morning, as Rosalind is packing her things. Beatrice walks with Wilhelm around the corridors. Bohm walks with her.

“This was part of your plan, wasn’t it?” he says. “To get close to Rose, and have her make you the godmother. You think this will deter me from wanting to arrest you, don’t you?”

“Am I wrong?” asks Beatrice. “Admit it, you can’t bring yourself to do it.”

Bohm reaches to grab her collar, but stops himself. Wilhelm is fast asleep, curled up against Beatrice’s chest. He huffs and drops his hand.

“I know you planted that bomb,” he hissed. “No matter what the statements say.”

“I didn’t do it,” Beatrice insists. “And I would never use someone as a deterrent. Unlike you, I have a moral compass.”

Bohm clenches his teeth. “Careful, Miss Baumann.”

Beatrice puts a finger to her lips. “Shush. He’s asleep.”

She smiles as he storms away. The situation, which seemed so dire before, is beginning to turn out for the better. Bohm has all but admitted to her that he cannot bring himself to arrest her. Beatrice enjoys the power. However small it may be.

In the beginning of December, another letter from Albert and Konrad finally arrives; and just in time too. Fear of what has happened to them is beginning to set in again. The letter puts Beatrice’s mind at ease. For now at least.

Girls

We’re writing this on the 2nd of November, but I doubt that you’ll get it until much later. The Allies are a persistent lot, and they’ve managed to bomb the train lines again. I don’t know why they’re wasting long distance trips on something so unnecessary, but there has to be a reason behind it. Hopefully they won’t do it again because at this rate we won’t be home until Christmas. We’re not in any danger, and we can hold out that long, but Albert is driving me up the wall. He just speaks enough French to be able to go out and about, but Belgium is still an occupied country. Every time a Nazi comes down the street I have to steer him the other way. I read about Rosalind’s new son in the newspaper, which we thankfully still get here. Kleyntshik, you’ve been named as godmother apparently. If that is true, that works in our favour. Bohm won’t want to arrest his grandson’s godmother; he loves his family too much for that. It’s his only redeemable quality. It does mean that you’ll have to spend more time with them though. Be careful kleyntshik. Just because you’re half part of the family does not mean that he’ll treat you any better.

Albert writing here. I am so bored. I don’t think anyone has been this bored before because it’s not physically possible. There’s absolutely nothing to do, unless you like watching the scenery and drinking a lot. I like alcohol, trust me, but Eugen says that it’s too dangerous for me to drink because I could slip up and start speaking English. He’s paranoid, and it’s driving me insane. Although, he did buy me a new watch for my birthday. Still, I can’t wait to be back, even if it is Nazi Germany. I definitely want to be back for Christmas. Claudette, you’ve promised me a La Bûche de Noël. I don’t know what that is, but I still expect that to be on the table as we’re walking through the door. (Kidding. I don’t know how to write sarcastically through a letter). Bee, I’m not sure whether to congratulate you or say that I’m sorry. Godmother to Bohm’s grandson is…exciting? Terrible? I don’t really know. Don’t do anything stupid. Please.

Missing you both lots, hope to see you soon.

Eugen and Albert

If Beatrice is being entirely honest with herself, a tiny part of her does not miss the boys. She enjoys the quiet, especially with Claudette. Alone, they can play music together, draw, bake, and just simply be. Sometimes it’s only friendly; gossiping about the latest scandals of the propaganda ministry, or teasing Beatrice about her skills in the kitchen. Other times it is…more. Nothing more than whispers and a kiss of course, but it feels like more. That little spark of warmth that explodes in Beatrice’s chest still detonates every time Claudette walks into a room.

True to their word, Konrad and Albert return in Christmas. It is a ferociously white and cold day, with snow banks covering the lower half of the bottom floor windows. When the lock of the front door clicks and swings open, a landslide of the pure white powder slides in with it. Snow is nestled in the boys’ hair and the stubble that Albert has grown. Their clothes are unironed, and both have dark bags under their eyes, but they are back, safe and sound, all the same. Claudette pops a bottle of champagne, and glasses are poured all around.

Beatrice lays her head on Albert’s shoulder. “Happy belated birthday.”

She gives him his present, a white box wrapped with a fraying blue ribbon. After all, she had expected him to be back a little earlier than Christmas. He pulls the lid off. Inside is a pair of pristine leather shoes, and a pale green bottle of cologne.

“Oh, not bloody bad, Bee!” Albert takes off his worn and faded shoes, and slips the new pair on. “And they fit like a glove. What else is there…lordy Bee! Is that DR Harris?”

“Give it a try, would you?”

Albert spritzes the air. It smells sharp, like pine and fresh alcohol. He grins, but sets it down in the middle of the table.

“That’s bloody expensive, you know,” he says. “What if I drop it?”

Beatrice shrugs. “I make more money here than I do at home. I can buy you another one.”

As Christmas draws nearer, days at the office grow longer. There is more and more paperwork with every day that passes, speeches to edit, appointments to note. As one of Adenauer’s private secretaries, Beatrice has been invited to the Christmas Day celebrations at the Chancellery. There is a parade in the morning, then awards in the afternoon. That evening, there will be a dinner that she is required to attend. White tie, elegant, and dripping with Nazi elite. Once upon a time, such a thing might have frightened her into paralysis. It still scares her, but not so much anymore. Things have changed. She has lived through worse. She cheekily asks Konrad if he wants to attend, she is allowed to bring a guest, but naturally he declines.

“I’d rather spend Christmas with Ivan the Terrible,” says Konrad. “At least he’s interesting.”

On Christmas Eve, the quartet exchanges presents. A new tube of dusty pink lipstick from Albert he’d bought in Malmedy. A music book from Konrad; full of new and untried songs for the piano. And from Claudette, a pair of black, thin high heels that she’d had Konrad find for her. Dinner is a blend of French, English, and German foods, with coquilles Saint Jacques, roast duck and potatoes, trifle, and a Buche de Noel as promised. Claudette makes kosher food for Konrad; boef bourgignon, seared salmon, and a modified Bienenstich.

As Claudette disappears upstairs to wreak havoc with her new sketch book and pencils, courtesy of Konrad, and Albert lurks in the bathroom to try the new hair gel that Beatrice has bought him, the remaining pair are left on the couch, Shoshana purring between them.

“He’s a real piece of work, your brother,” says Konrad. “I don’t know how you put up with him on a daily basis.”

“You get used to him.” Beatrice says. “It takes time. I hated him for the first year he came to live with us.”

“I always forget,” Konrad says, sipping his drink. “That you’re not actually related. Lucky you.”

Beatrice scoffs. It has been months since she has had to put up with their last row, but no doubt the warring never ceased in Belgium. She is sick of the mans whinging and whining. Complaining about the other children on the playground, simply because they don’t agree on every miniscule detail; it is incessant. Beatrice glowers at Konrad.

“What do you have against him?” she asks. “I know you don’t like him, and you’re allowed to think that, but it’s turning into hatred. I can’t stand it. Can’t you at least be civil to one another?”

“It’s…” Konrad runs a hand through his hair. “Complicated.”

“We have all night Eugen.” Beatrice waits, her eyes unmoving from Konrad, as she sits patiently for her answer. Konrad sighs and stands up.

“I want to show you something,” he says. His voice is hollow. Empty. Devoid of all emotion. It is something so very opposite of Konrad’s typical opinionated demeanour, and so very similar to that of a certain general’s, that Beatrice feels a glimmer of worry as she follows him upstairs. To her surprise, they bypass Konrad’s office and climb the stairs to the attic. Claudette’s door is cracked open, and Beatrice can see the faint outlines of grey and black already waving across her paper.

There is a room in that attic that Beatrice has never gone into. Every time she has tried the handle, it has been locked. She has not asked Konrad. She has decided that it is locked for a reason.

He pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks the room with a deep click. Dust swoops down at them as Konrad swings the door open.

The room beyond is lit only by pale moonlight. A thick layer of dust has settled over every surface, and long dead spiders have constructed their homes in the corners between the roof and the walls, now wilting and faded. It is a bedroom, but it does not look as if anyone has slept in here for a very long time.

Beatrice peers out of the window. From there, she can see out over the entire Tiergarten, all the way to the houses beyond, their lights golden and bright, laden with snow. Gingerbread houses. Perfect and clean, quiet and humble.

“This was my sister’s room,” says Konrad. “We lived here when we were children. When our grandparents bought it.

Konrad has already admitted to Beatrice that his parents are dead in a conversation long ago. But he has never mentioned a sister before.

“She was a lot like you actually,” he says. “In personality at least. She loved tinkering with machinery, inventing little devices, playing music. And god, her eyesight was awful.”

“Hey!”

Konrad smiles at the ground. “In looks she was the complete opposite. Tall, dark hair, and these ridiculously long eyelashes that would leave little stripes of mascara on her glasses.”

He taps his fingers against the cracking plaster walls. “After the war it was just us. We were only twelve and thirteen when we had to move here with our grandparents. We told one another that we wouldn’t leave each other, not after our parents died. But no, Mieke had other ideas. She wanted to see the world, get married, study at university. She met a Frenchmen in 1925. She married him, moved to Paris, and left me in Berlin.

“It was…I think it was 1928 when I got the news,” he says. “She was pregnant. I went to visit her the week the baby was due. It was just her and Phillipe in a tiny rundown apartment in Paris, so I figured I could help them. Phillipe was not best pleased to have me staying with them, but Mieke brought him around eventually.

“Then one day, while Phillipe was at work, Mieke went into labor. It was our parents thirtieth wedding anniversary, so I’d dipped into Phillipe’s vodka just a little. I was…I was drunk. Very drunk. But Mieke needed to get to hospital, so I drove her. In my drunken state, I…we swerved off of the road. Slammed into a wall. Mieke was in the front seat with me, so naturally she wasn’t any more protected than I was.”

Konrad smiles grimly, and runs his hand along his arm. “A broken neck. Both legs fractured. But to this day, I only have the scars and the odd bad day with my knee to remind me. I was lucky to have survived.”

He looks out of the window quickly, and rests his elbows atop the chest of drawers. He does not want Beatrice to see him cry.

“Mieke died,” he says. “When I came too, they were cutting us out of the car. My sister’s body was so mangled, they only knew it was her because I told them so. And the baby had been born. I…I…I don’t remember if she had the baby while we were driving, or…or if they cut it out of her, but it was there. A little boy. He was still alive somehow when they found us. He survived just long enough for Phillipe to name him. Johann Augustus.

“After I recovered, I finished my degree and moved back to Berlin. It was 1930 at this point, and the Nazi party was gaining prominence. I had my family’s records changed to ensure that any traces of our religion were removed. I joined the party to ward off anyone who might have been suspicious, and I started my business. And with the German economy on the rise again, it took off. I got rich, moved in here, tried to forget it all.”

Konrad opens the top drawer. He withdraws a black leather photo album. Its cover is scratched and faded, and the curved text on the front is unreadable. Konrad opens to the front page and shows Beatrice the picture within.

“This was us,” he says. “Same ages as you and Albert.”

The young Eugen Konrad looks startingly familiar to another face Beatrice knows. The same curly hair, mischievous grin, and broad shoulders just lightly defined with muscle. He is staring off to one side as if something more important than the camera has caught his attention.

He looks like Albert.

Mieke smiles at the camera. Her face is thin, but soft. Her wide eyes are framed by long dark eyelashes and round spectacles, and her ebony hair is pulled into a bun that sits at the nape of her neck. She looks just as tall as Eugen, if not taller.

“She’s beautiful,” says Beatrice. Konrad attempts a smile, but it is only a twitch of his lips that quickly falls to a frown.

“Your brother,” he mutters. “Is the spitting image of me. The same looks, the same temperament, the same undying, foolish loyalty to their family. In the past few months, I have seen more of my personality in Albert than I have in myself. The good and the bad. You want to know why I hate your brother? Why I scowl every time he walks into a room? Why I can hardly stand it when you take his side instead of mine?”

Konrad snaps the photo album shut. “Because he is me. He is me before my realisation that the world is an unjust place, and he is naïve enough to believe that he can do and be whatever he likes without consequences. He would slaughter, burn, and destroy innocent lives if it meant protecting you, but due to his incredible stupidity, he would only kill you in the process. And once upon a time I would have done the same for my sister. But I have learnt otherwise. Albert needs to wake up and do the same.”

As Albert’s sister, Beatrice should be furious. Livid that this man who hardly knows him can dare to insult him in such a way. But as someone who is beginning to know Konrad well, she feels little anger. And as someone who knows Albert even better, she understands. Albert is loyal. He is naïve. He is strong-headed and protective, and foolish and over-eager. In his willingness to preserve and defend, his hasty actions have the potential to put all of them at risk. If he were to realise the full extent of the danger that Beatrice is in, nothing could stop him from marching into Bohm’s office and trying to slaughter the general himself.

Downstairs somewhere, the clock rings out. Twelve chimes. Midnight.

Konrad pauses at the door and turns his head away. “Merry Christmas, kleyntshik.”


	12. The Good Old Days

Christmas Day. Beatrice would stay for breakfast, but the secretaries have been instructed to meet at the office at half past seven. The sky is still pale orange and grey as she is walking out of the door. The streets are empty and silent, and the snow from the night before has not yet melted. She is glad to leave early. Her talk with Konrad the night before is still fresh in her memory.

In the office, the secretaries pass gifts and warm drinks as they crowd around Adenauer for the day’s tasks.

“Alright ladies, long day ahead,” he says. “Eight o’clock, you’ll need to go out and make sure the cameras and reporters are in place. Fraulein Richter, you’ve got that statement from me to give to Herr Weiss, he’ll be just outside. The parade starts at nine, and we’ll be in direct eyeline of the cameras, so please make sure you look presentable. Afterwards, we’ll need those pieces by the journalists approved. At four we have the awards ceremony, then Christmas dinner.”

A very long day indeed.

The cameras are in place. The journalists are organised. Beatrice and the other secretaries file into their places. Beatrice is horrified to find that they are standing just behind the masters of war themselves. Goebbels, Goering, Himmler, Hess, Ribbentrop, Bormann, Speer. They are so close that if Beatrice were to reach forward, she could take their hats from their heads.

On the other side of the wide street, packed against the buildings, a clamouring crowd of thousands have gathered. They line the road, cheering and waving little red flags. Teachers, lawyers, doctors, chefs, mechanics, mothers, and businessmen. All of them fight to catch a glimpse of their leaders, their soldiers, the supposedly great men that are leading them into a new era.

Somewhere down there, Konrad is lurking, counting the minutes until the parade is over, and he can retreat to the safety of his home without fear of being judged.

If it is possible, the crowd doubles in volume. Three cars come down the middle of the cleared street. In the backseat, arm raised in the barbaric salute, is the cause of it all. The Fuhrer himself has arrived, and with him, a tremendous weight of disgust upon Beatrice’s shoulders. There he sits, so close, much closer than any British youth would dare get to him. His ugly face is turned proudly upwards as he looks all around at the many thousands of people that have come to greet him. So comfortable, so safe, so unaffected by the hostility of his own war that he thinks it clever to organise a Christmas parade in the middle of it all. The crowd thinks of none of that. They see only the man who has led their country out of poverty and ruin, rebuilt them, restored their power.

Within minutes, his elegant car is gone, and Beatrice can breathe. He is replaced by the finery and perfection of the Wehrmacht. There come great droves of soldiers, goose stepping in time to the beat of a drum that Beatrice cannot see. Their many guns flash in the morning sun. Unit after unit, man after man, all in neat rows that seem to have been drawn with a ruler. It will never stop. They are toy soldiers. They are machines.

Beatrice spots a familiar, angular face on the street blow, walking proudly ahead of his soldiers. Alexander Bohm’s medals shine brightly against his Waffenrock attire; ceremonial sword glinting. His shoulders are tensed as he saunters forward. Beatrice has heard whispers of the battles he has fought. The Somme. Passchendaele. Verdun. They say he shot three Frenchmen with two bullets. They say he took a bullet to the leg, but shouted down his commander until he was allowed to fight. That is how he fought his way to the top. Became the man he is today; leader of the Panzer Divisions, Head of Capital City Defence, an esteemed war hero, an awed celebrity. A liar. A parasite. A two-faced bastard. His unit marches by the rows where his family are sitting, just to Beatrice’s right and down a row or two. He flashes the quickest of grins at them, just enough for them to see and for the journalists to miss. Smiling ruins the effect, breaks the mask of superiority and power. Generals don’t smile.

The parade never seems to end. Heer troops, then the Luftwaffe, then the Kriegsmarine, all marching in perfect lines. After that, the Hitler Youth. Beatrice spots Johannes in the third row of the first unit. He looks straight ahead, and marches with such power that he looks like a different person entirely.

When it is finally over, Beatrice watches the dictator climb the stairs of the Chancellery and approach the microphone. She does not listen to his speech. She claps when others clap, cheers when others cheer. But the vile words that are being spoken fall on deaf ears. She refuses to listen. She refuses to acknowledge the world that she is standing in. The sharp hand gestures and the cheers of the crowd are animalistic. It isn’t until the great thunderous cries of Sieg Heil erupt that she snaps back to reality. She wants to vomit. Her ears ring.

The rest of the day flashes by in a blur. Articles are edited and delivered to publishers, and the awards ceremony is nothing more than an occasion of pomp and ostentatiousness. A dozen or so men have been awarded the Iron Cross, with reporters snapping in the background. The Fuhrer himself awards the medals, with countless generals standing behind him. Bohm watches, impassive again. It is a pointless arrangement.

There is no time to go home and change, so the secretaries have brought their outfits with them, and dress in the office bathrooms. They look, all of them, like teenage girls getting ready for a school dance. They crowd in to apply make-up in the mirrors, pin back their hair, close the hard to reach zips and buttons, complimenting and fawning over one another, giggling and slipping in heels. It is so easy to forget that there is a war happening around them.

Beatrice had enlisted Konrad’s help and stylish opinion the week prior to search for a dress. Together, they’d found a pale gold, floor-length gown, the long sleeves translucent and tight, her back exposed. Accompanied by heels, it makes Beatrice feel twice her height. That is, until the other women slip into their own heels.

Golden lights shine from the windows of the Reich Chancellery, and guests pour through the wide marble doorway. The equerry leads them through the halls until they reach the dining hall. Crystalline chandeliers hang in alignment with thin windows that stretch all the way to the ceiling. A Christmas tree stands at the front of the room, its dark pine needles scratching the roof. A band plays to one side, and waiters all in black stand at the edges of the room. Adenauer’s secretaries have a table to themselves, and they are ushered into their seats. Rosalind is not among them. She sits with her family, Wilhelm perched on her lap.

The first course is slow cooked Sauerbraten, Spaetzle, and Kartoffelsalat. The sauerbraten falls to pieces on Beatrice’s fork, and the potatoes are drenched in dozens of herbs and spices. She eats it all, but still finds herself salivating as the main course is brought out; roast duck, potato dumplings, and a tart apple sauce for dipping. The table falls silent. Only the music chink of cutlery against china can be heard.

Plates are cleared away. The music swells even louder than before, and guests begin to flock to the dance floor. The other secretaries, each and every one of them spoken for, disappear with their sweethearts. Beatrice finds herself sitting alone, picking at the remnants of her dinner. She would go and sit with Rosalind and Dietrich, but their table occupies not only them, but the family of Reinhard Heydrich. Beatrice would rather not speak to him.

A pair of hands come down on Beatrice’s shoulders, and a chin settles on the top of her head. She already knows who it is.

“Hello Markus,” she mutters.

“Hey gorgeous.”

Markus Bucher is a close friend of Johannes’, and Adenauer’s adjutant. He is a notorious flirt, and a scandalous ladies man. It seems that every other week he has slept with so-and-so, or dated what’s-her-name. And regardless of who his sweetheart of the week is, every unfortunate woman between sixteen and thirty to pass within a mile of him is subject to his advances. And that includes Beatrice.

“Merry Christmas,” he says. He leans in to kiss her on the cheek, but she swats him away.

“Don’t you have better things to do?” she says. “Some poor widow to seduce?”

He slips into the chair beside her. “Aw, widows are no fun. They’re so glum, you know?”

Beatrice raises her glass to her lips, sneering. “You’re disgusting.”

Markus guffaws. “Oh, Leni, you’re adorable.”

“Please don’t call me Leni.”

He smirks, and rests his hand on her thigh. “You’re mean.”

Beatrice calmly tips her glass out in his lap. He swears and jumps back. But rather than turning red and cursing, jumping up and down like a lunatic, he cackles. His shaggy blonde hair bounces as he throws his head back and laughs.

“Damn woman, that was cold of you,” he says. “No wonder no one’s snagged you yet,”

Beatrice’s leg bounces; her hands twitch. She looks around the room for someone she can escape to. She locks eyes with Bohm, who is watching Johannes twirl Katrin around on the dance floor. He squints at her, then his eyes flick to Markus, and they soften. He nods his head, beckoning her over. Beatrice sets down her empty glass and stands up. He’s not her ideal choice, but in some regard, he is better than Markus.

“Hey, where’re you going?”

“Goodnight Markus.”

She closes the distance between herself and Bohm. He gives her his vague smile and passes her a glass from a waiter. “Marcus is up to his usual tricks, I take it?”

“He’s a menace,” Beatrice mutters. “I’ve never met someone who is so clueless, yet so adamant.”

“Throwing your drink on him was a nice touch.”

Beatrice smiles to herself. She had enjoyed that.

“Just out of curiosity,” says Bohm “Of every person in this room you could talk to instead of Markus, you decided to talk to…me?”

“The secretaries, Katrin, and Johannes are dancing, Dietrich is drinking, and Rosalind is off nursing Wilhelm somewhere,” she says. “And I don’t know anyone else.”

“You’d really rather talk to me over Markus?” Bohm raises an eye at her.

“You’re not as creepy as he is,” she says. “Unpredictable, yes. But not creepy.”

Bohm chuckles. “I’m only unpredictable to keep you on your toes, Miss Baumann.”

“You tried stabbing me in the head.” Beatrice says quietly.

Bohm tuts. “I was never going to stab you.”

He sets his glass down on the tray of a passing waiter. “Dance?”

Beatrice furrows her brow. “Sorry?”

“Dancing, Miss Baumann.” he sighs, as if irritated “Would you like to dance?” 

He is holding out his hand expectantly. And like a fool, Beatrice takes it.

On the dancefloor, his other hand comes to rest on her back. Their height differences are almost comical. Even in heels, Beatrice still cannot see over his angular shoulders. Bohm’s fingers brush the skin of her back, and she shudders.

“Hand,” she mutters.

Bohm quickly moves it. Beatrice stares up at the general, and is surprised by herself. Her hands are not shaking. She is not shivering, nor shuddering. She does not feel anything at all, except for the ever so gentle tingle of alcohol as it runs through her system. She barely even feels Bohm’s hand on her hip.

“What happened?” she murmurs.

“What do you mean?”

Beatrice shrugs. “If you’d asked me to dance three months ago, I’d be shaking. I was petrified of you. And I doubt that you would’ve even asked me to dance in the first place. You hate me.”

Much to Beatrice’s surprise, Bohm shakes his head. “I don’t hate you, Miss Baumann.”

“No?”

“No,” he says. “I’m…obligated by duty to be frustrated by you; having to keep one eye on you on top of everything else. But I don’t hate you.”

Beatrice’s eyebrows crease. “Dare I ask why?”

Bohm huffs, as if having to explain his actions is a great toll. But that is not so far beyond the truth; he never has liked having to spell himself out.

“You are…irritating, and an obstacle,” he says. “And a pest that interrupts my work far often than I like.”

Beatrice snorts. But she stays quiet; he is not done yet.

“But,” he says, letting the word dance on the tip of his tongue. “You make Rose smile. She trusts you, clearly enough to make you Wilhelm’s godmother. Now that she’s married, and now she has you…well, I’ve not seen her so happy in years.”

“How sweet.” Her words drip with ridicule, but only because she fights to make it so. She does not want to give Bohm a genuine compliment, no matter how much she might want to.

His lips twitch. “What I do hate is that you keep stepping on my toes.”

Beatrice scoffs. “I don’t know how to dance!”

“Yes, I can see that,” Bohm sighs. “Right foot back, and then left. I said right first you silly girl, right.”

Beatrice stares down at her feet, focussing on where she should be placing them, where she shouldn’t be placing them. She grins through her inadequacy; who is even paying attention to her? Only Bohm, and his mockery of her dancing will be little more than the blink of an ant in comparison of his other taunts.

Bohm chuckles. “You have to sway a little as well; you look like a statue.”

“That’s rich,” says Beatrice. “Coming from the man who has exactly three expressions in his whole repertoire.”

“I’m a field marshal,” says Bohm. “We’re not allowed to have any emotions.”

“Poor you.”

The words have scarcely left her mouth when her heels wobbles underneath her. Bohm quickly slides his arm further around her waist, catching her before she topples any further. Beatrice lets out a laugh of embarrassment and slips her arms around his shoulders for balance.

“Good Christ woman, you’re useless,” Bohm laughs. Such a sound is an odd thing. It is deep but soft, more like short, reverberating hums that Beatrice can feel as she is pressed against him. She stands herself back up, and they begin dancing again. Her cheeks are red from embarrassment and exertion. She tries to remember how much she has drunk.

They dance chest to chest. Bohm’s hand stays wrapped around her waist, but it is not tight. Not caressing. It is firm but gentle, and it is how Beatrice imagines he might dance with Rosalind. When she looks into his eyes, she sees no traces of frustration. Anger. Hatred. Mocking. None of that. She sees only a glimmer of an emotion Beatrice does not know. It is not love; it could never be that. She cannot place what the feeling is, but despite everything that Bohm represents, it makes her feel safe.

The song picks up in pace, and the slow pair are out of time. But neither seem to mind; it is a challenge enough to keep Beatrice upright. A grin that halves his aging appearance spreads across Bohm’s face.

“I’ll spin you,” he says. “Go on,”

“No,” Beatrice laughs, “I’ll fall.”

“Come on,” Bohm pushes. “Just a little one,”

Beatrice rolls her eyes. She smiles privately and lets him spin her out playfully, then draw her back in. When the song ends, he dares to dip her. The world spins, and for the first time, Beatrice is aware of his hand on her back; it is the only thing stopping her from hitting the ground. He pulls her back up gently. Beatrice expects a private smile from him in farewell. But instead he leans forward and kisses her on the cheek. He is impassive again. He is quiet. His movements are small.

“Merry Christmas Miss Baumann.”

“Merry Christmas sir.”

Beatrice is locked inside of a daydream. She is sitting on the steps of the Chancellery with her shoes in her lap, and her hair unpinned. A cigarette is clenched between her lips, hooked by her slender fingers and gently emitting pale smoke. The lights from the building at her back are only a dim orange, there is a war on after all, but there is still enough of a glow that it spills out onto the road like great rivers of honey, mixing and swirling with the inky, consuming black asphalt.

In this daydream, the Chancellery is on fire, and the golden glow is not from the chandelier, but the flames that claw at the bricks. Beatrice imagines planes cartwheeling across the sky, British and German alike, smoke and infernos trailing like the tails of comets. She watches one plunge into the ground in the distance, and a great cloud of ash rises up where it has hit. In front of her, soldiers scream and raise their guns as they charge into the unknown. A hundred meters away, a second army charges back. And somewhere far away, through the rubble of the city, the great boom of an artillery gun sounds as it is fired high into the sky.

And in this daydream, Beatrice is far, far away.

The rather horrible thing about having ones birthday so close to Christmas is that your presents are often lumped into one large gift-giving celebration. Despite having her birthday a whole two weeks after Christmas, the typical Wilson household tradition is to merge the two days into one be celebrations, meaning Beatrice’s birthday is often overlooked. But this year, things are different. If anything, the celebrations are extended to two whole days. One for Beatrice Wilson, and one for Magdalen Baumann.

Beatrice awakens that Tuesday morning to find a small pile of presents at the foot of her bed. Hearing stifled giggling at her door, she unwraps the first one. It is from Albert, a gigantic box of peppermints, lemon drops, and packets of tea bags. From Claudette, a book of sheet music for…a violin?

Beatrice opens the door and finds Albert and Claudette sitting outside, wide grins splitting their faces. Beatrice holds up the book with an uneasy smile.

“Violin music?” she asks. “I don’t have my violin.”

Albert points to the last box at the end of her bed. “Check that one.”

Beatrice already knows what’s inside before she unwraps it. She tears open the wrapping paper of the final box, white and blue shreds lying at her feet. Inside is a dark case with silver latches. She flips open the case to reveal the instrument that she already knows is inside. The violin’s body is a dark reddish-brown, smooth and untouched by fingerprints. The bow is made of the same colour, straight and clean. At the bottom of the case is a pale yellow rosin box.

The violin is from Konrad.

There is an envelope stuck to the outside of the box that Beatrice had not yet spotted. She pulls it open and begins to read.

Beatrice,

I still have not apologised for the things that I said about your brother. I was tired, and I wasn’t thinking straight, but that is no excuse. Apologies have never been my strong point. I knew that if I were to say this with you standing in front of me, I would make a mistake, especially since English is not my first language. I want to be able to express how truly sorry I am, and I do that best through writing.

It is true that your brother loves you more than anyone else. It does not take a detective to realise this.. I need to give him credit where credit is due. He is not as much of an idiot as I once thought. He’s certainly not stupid enough to go charging after you if you were in danger. It was wrong of me to compare him to myself in my youth, because I was a headstrong fool who wouldn’t have looked twice before crossing the road. I realise now that Albert is twice the man that I was then. For one thing, he would have the bravery to apologise in person.

We both know that I am a materialistic man. I appreciate objects in life, not feelings. I hope that my words are enough to warrant your forgiveness, but it always makes me feel better to attach a gift to an apology. While we were in Belgium, Albert told me that you play the violin. I hope that he was not lying, otherwise I have just made a very expensive mistake.

Happy birthday kleyntshik.

-Eugen

Beatrice sets down the violin as if it is a baby. She steps over Albert and Claudette who are still sitting in her doorway and makes a beeline for Konrad’s office. She knocks softly, and goes inside to find him hunched over his desk. He stands up, panicked, at such an early interaction after the letter.

“Beatrice, I—”

He breaks off as Beatrice envelops him in a hug. He freezes.

“Thank you,” she says into his shoulder.

Konrad chuckles nervously, and pats her arm. “Did you…read the letter?” he asks.

“Shut up, and let me hug you.” she says.

Konrad’s arms move slowly and shakily, as if he has just broken through a sheet of ice. He wraps his long arms around Beatrice, and rests his cheek on her head.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

And they stand there, silent, swaying like daisies in the wind, letting the silence tell one another all of the things they cannot say, or do not know how to say.

I love you.

I’m sorry.

You were right.

I don’t want to let go.

But they must let go eventually, and it is Albert’s sharp laugh from upstairs that makes them jump. Beatrice giggles weakly at the sound of it, then again as Konrad kisses her cheek.

“Thank you,” he says. “For forgiving me.”

When she gets home from work, Beatrice discovers a feast in her honour. Konrad, it would seem, has spent the afternoon combing the stores for enough ingredients to make a traditional British birthday dinner. Beatrice comes home to tender roast beef and potatoes, chunks of cooked carrot, and a plate full of rather dilapidated Yorkshire puddings.

“They’re a little wobbly,” says Konrad. “But I think that they taste alright.”

Beatrice bites into one. Despite its rather disappointing appearance, the pastry is crunchy and crisp, and the filling is hot and full of herbs. Mouth full, she gives Konrad a thumbs up. He grins giddily.

With the boys back in the house, Beatrice and Claudette seldom find time alone. Often they sit upstairs in Claudette’s bedroom and draw together. Beatrice’s drawings never come out quite right. The perspective will be skewed one way, or the lines will be too rough. Claudette’s drawings though, they are something else. She will convince Beatrice to sit for her, completely sit, and draw her. And every time without fail, she will turn the paper around to reveal a smooth, gorgeous piece of artwork.

On the evening of Beatrice’s birthday, Claudette hands Beatrice her new violin and has her bring it up to her chin. After about half an hour, Beatrice cannot take it any longer. Her arms are burning, and she lets the violin fall into her lap.

“I need a break,” she says. “How’s the drawing coming along?”

“Mm…it’s alright,”

Beatrice disagrees. It is more than alright. The expression on the drawing-Beatrice’s face is not one that she was expecting. She looks as if she has been caught off guard, but is somehow irritated at the same time. Her hair has been changed as well. A plait that wraps around the back of her head, the rest of her hair flowing and coming to a stop just above her shoulders.

“It doesn’t look quite right,” says Claudette. “The hair, I mean.”

“You could plait my hair if that would help,” says Beatrice, reaching up to take out the pins.

Cross-legged, she sits on the bed in front of Claudette. Her nimble fingers brush through Beatrice’s blonde hair, separating it into strands. Beatrice can feels Claudette’s breath, warm against her skin, and the accidental brush of her fingers against her neck.

“Your hair is so soft,” Claudette murmurs.

It is like an invisible force turns Beatrice around. Her hand is on Claudette’s, and their lips are pressed together. And, like a miracle, the same force overcomes Claudette, and she kisses back with enough force to nearly topple Beatrice. She smells of lavender and graphite, and her stained fingers trace grey streaks across Beatrice’s arm. Electricity crackles in Beatrice’s chest, and she presses her body closer. They melt into one another, like the blend of pencil strokes only a foot away. The kiss is honey, golden and sweet. Gentle; the tide lapping at the shoreline on a hazy morning.

Drawing together is one thing. But this is another entirely. Beatrice can feel every curve, every shiver, every movement.

“Maybe we need a chair under the door,” Claudette whispers. Beatrice giggles, pulling out of the kiss for a moment.

“I mean it,” says Claudette. The corner of her mouth is quirked upwards in a scandalous smile that Beatrice would never imagine her capable of.

“But you’re so warm,” she whispers. “I don’t want to get up.”

“Please?”

Beatrice groans and climbs off of the bed. She jams the chair under the door handle, testing it to see that it won’t budge. Rather unceremoniously, she falls onto her back among the pillows.

What will you say if someone knocks at the door?” she says. Her hand wraps around Claudette’s collar and draws her closer.

“I’ll say—” She plants a kiss on Beatrice’s lips, punctuating each word with a touch of her lips that moves lower and lower down her neck. “That…I’m…not…dressed.”

Beatrice lifts Claudette’s face to meet her eyes. “And how much of a lie will that be?”

“That depends. How quiet can you be?”

“Detta!” Beatrice laughs. “What’s gotten into you?”

Claudette leans closer until her lips graze Beatrice’s, the ends of her dark, wild hair tickling her face. “You.”

The kisses may have been honey before, but after that, they are alcohol. Sharp. Toxic. Dark. But Beatrice wants only to drown herself in it. No longer are they the tide running up the shore, they are the rough swells and waves of the deepest, most dangerous parts of the ocean. Beatrice is experiencing a side to Claudette that she has never imagined possible. Passionate, deep, greedy. Beatrice finds herself submitting to every little touch, whisper, and caress. The room is crackling. It is full of stars.

Loud footsteps come up the stairs. Beatrice puts her hand over Claudette’s mouth to stifle her groan as the Frenchwoman pushes her hips closer. They move in silence, chest heaving and hips rolling. The footsteps grow louder and louder; someone is outside of the door.

There is a loud thud, and a muffled, “Ow.”

Claudette bursts out laughing and falls to the side. Beatrice giggles and her laughter is only fuelled by Albert’s disgraced muttering.

“Oi, shut it you two!” he yells. “I hit my head on the bloody roof, Christ…”

“Oh, he’s ruined it now,” says Claudette. “And we were having so much fun.”

She traces lazy circles on Beatrice’s arm. A sharp tingle runs down her skin, making her shiver. It makes her wonder what would have happened if Albert had not hit his head. She feels guilty at the undeserved irritation that she feels at her brother. It isn’t really his fault that he’s such a klutz.

No, wait. Yes it is.

“I want to be able to tell them,” Beatrice whispers into the star studded air. “About us.”

Claudette shifts, making the bed creak. “I do too.”

Beatrice turns on her side to look Claudette in the eye. “You never finished my plait.”

Claudette’s slender fingers trail lazily through the blonde strands. “I don’t feel like it now,” she breathes, twirling a piece. “Later maybe.”

They fall asleep tangled in one another’s arms. Their limbs curl around each other, hair loose, and only half covered by the blanket.

“I love her,” Beatrice thinks as she falls asleep, carried away by Claudette’s slow breathing. And she means it too. The compassion, the kindness, the little flicker of warmth and excitement that she brings with her whenever she enters a room. The feeling of being so alive, so energised just by hearing her melodic voice.

She loves her.

On Magdalen Baumann’s birthday, nearly a full month later, Beatrice is surprised to find herself awakening with the same buzz that she felt on her actual birthday. It stays with her, even when she arrives at work that morning. Hedda passes her a package and flower bouquet as she sits down.

“The package is from us,” she says. “I don’t know who the flowers are from.”

The gift from the office is a bottle of wine, tall and dark red, with a purple ribbon curled around the neck, bouncing and swirling about like a spring. The bouquet of flowers from the mysterious gift-giver are also a deep crimson; roses. They are darkly gorgeous, a gothic endearment. A little card is attached to the stalks, written in the most beautiful handwriting Beatrice has ever seen.

Happy birthday Miss Baumann,

I’m leaving for North Africa next week, so don’t make any trouble while I’m gone. Enjoy the roses.

-Alexander

Something about the card bearing his first name does not sit right with Beatrice. He detests anyone referring to him by Alexander, save for Katrin of course. So it seems odd that he would sign a card to a woman, who he does not like in the first place, with a name that he does not tolerate being called by. Beatrice tosses the card in the bin and stuffs the roses into a vase until she can take them home.


	13. Aesthetics and Affairs

The following morning, Beatrice is coaxed into going for a walk with Rosalind and Wilhelm. It is nearing autumn now, and the first hints of amber are seeping through the wide trees that line the pavements of the Tiergarten. The breeze, warm and soft, sends Beatrice’s short curls flickering. She tucks her hands into the pockets of her long coat and turns her face to the sun. It is one of those rare days where it is cold enough to be bundled into a coat, but warm enough to still be pleasant to walk through. Swallows careen and flutter overhead, chirping and twittering. Beside her, Rosalind pushes Wilhelm in a stroller. He coos and babbles, and stretches his little hands towards the creatures that swoop far away. Somewhere, muffled by the wind and many thousands of bricks, they can hear music. Only a bassline of a deep jazz song, gravelly and trembling.

It feels to Beatrice as if something in her mind is misaligned. Like a string on a violin that is not in tune, or the screws in the body of a fighter plane that just will not tighten no matter how hard she tries. Everything is all as should be, save for one miniscule thing that she cannot place. She searches for it, but her mind is blank. All she can hear is that godforsaken bassline.

“You know what we need to do Lena?” asks Rosalind.

“Go on holidays?”

“We need to find you a boy,” says Rosalind. “You’re twenty-two, and you don’t even have a sweetheart.”

Beatrice snorts. “I’m sorry?”

“A sweetheart, Lena.” says Rosalind. “I can’t believe that you’ve never had a boyfriend before.”

“I have impossibly high standards of men,” Beatrice says with a sigh. “And what if I don’t want a man, hm?”

“Well you can’t go around being alone forever,” says Rosalind. “You’ve got to get married and have children.”

Beatrice snorts. “The idea of having children is incredibly unappealing to me. Listen, I love Wilhelm to absolute pieces, you know that, but logically I don’t see the point of having a child. It’s one more mouth to feed, one more thing to buy clothes and medicine and education for. As adorable as some of them are, they’re a nuisance.”

“The world needs children, Lena.” Rosalind admonishes her. “The wheels of humanity need to keep turning. The Reich needs more great men and women to keep it running for a thousand years. Otherwise we’re doing this all for nothing.”

“And what is this,” Beatrice makes quotation marks around the word this. “That we’re doing?”

“The war, Lena?” Rosalind says it as if Beatrice were stupid. “The war my husband, and father, and brother are fighting in?”

“No, I understand that,” says Beatrice. “I just don’t understand why…why a war of all things? Aren’t there ways to make a better world without spilling innocent blood?”

Rosalind sighs. “Because the world is not all innocent. Not everyone is as open to negotiation as we are. The Jews would see our homeland burning for their own benefit, but they have no right to privilege. The English fancy themselves in control of our politicians and laws, yet they prove themselves forfeit to that idea by allowing a puppet king to rule with no power. Sometimes we are left with no other option but to fight.”

And as if the great gates of irony were being thrown open upon hearing her words, the air raid sirens begin to blare.

They are in the midst of the Tiergarten, surrounded by great, wide trees whose leaves could not withstand the fingers of a child let alone a bomb. The Berlin ground forces have become better are recognising the skies before an imminent attack, but that is not enough time for the girls to get to a shelter. They have five minutes; maybe less. Rosalind snatches Wilhelm from his stroller and holds him to her chest, but she does not move. Neither of them do. They are alone, and the only sound is that of the shrill siren that screams for them to hide. All they do is stare up into the sky, peering through the sheltering leaves, and ponder what course the following moments will take.

“What do we do?” Rosalind whispers, and it is a miracle that Beatrice can hear her. “Magdalen, what do we do?”

Beatrice shakes her head as she looks up to the heavens. “I don’t know.” she breathes.

Neither one of them moves. They stand like statues, pale hands entwined, and Wilhelm screaming his shrill cry through the din. The bassline of music gets louder.

“That’s not music,” Beatrice thinks, her heart sinking. “It’s the planes.”

The girls come to their senses enough to sit with their backs against the strongest, widest tree they can find. They press their coats against Wilhelm’s tiny ears, and turn his face away from the world. They are so far away from it all that Beatrice cannot even hear people screaming, running, praying. Nothing but the sirens, and nothing but the planes.

She sees them in the distance, a dozen black dots that move in a triangular formation. They are too high to bomb the city with any sort of accuracy, but too low to be preparing for a dogfight. And it is not explosives that pour from their bomb bays. It is something shining and fluttering that fall like feathers, swooping left and right as they glide to the ground. Beatrice cranes her neck as they fly overhead, and their shadows dart by, like the wings of eagles. The strange material falling from the planes descends to them.

Paper. A thousand upon a thousand sheets of glossy paper. They look like newspaper articles, slightly grey, soft, and flickering in the wind. They blanket the Tiergarten like snow, cartwheel across the grass like tumbleweeds, settle in the highest branches of the tree that Beatrice and Rosalind huddle under. Silently awestruck, they climb to their feet and move towards a few of the straggling sheets. Rosalind plucks one from a long hanging bough. Beatrice takes one wedged under a log, and shakes the dirt from it. The sight there makes her want to vomit.

It is a photograph; a still shot from the Christmas party in the Chancellery. Two figures are positioned on the dance floor, close together. The man is leaning forward, and kissing the woman’s cheek. The man is dressed in the finery of the Waffenrock uniform. The woman wears a tight, lacy golden dress with a back that shows through. Her hair is pinned back and wavy, flapper-esque, and she cannot be any taller than the man’s chin.

There is an article on the back that Beatrice almost cannot bear to read. But she has to know what they say. She has to.

“Even in the midst of a steadily growing conflict, it appears that the most common distractions of man remain in place. The lavish calling of the elite, the decadent lifestyle of the wealthy, and the enticing appearance of a younger woman apply to the esteemed war-hero and general, Alexander Bohm, as much as they do to any other murderous man. The woman in question is unknown to reporters, but it can be said with complete faith that she is neither Bohm’s loyal wife, nor his faithful daughter. One may argue that a dance is an innocent enough thing, but combined with an action as intimate as kissing your young partner on the cheek, it becomes another matter entirely. The general himself is a shadowy figure to the British government, and little is known to foreign parliaments about his demeanour, personality, or lifestyle.

‘I mean, what sort of man goes behind his wife’s back like that?’ said an anonymous interviewee for the Daily Express. ‘It’s downright disgusting. If that’s what all Germans are like, then I’m glad we’re off fighting them.’

This is not the first time that rumours of additional lovers have circulated through the current German government. Countless tales of conquests are associated with the Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels, as well as rare encounters between the lesser members of English society and the Minister of Foreign Affairs Joachim von Ribbentrop. To add the General of the Panzer Division Alexander Bohm to the mix would not be such a hasty decision. Is this a snapshot of a simple Christmas dance, or of a relationship that is far more sinister than we can know?”

Beatrice looks up at Rosalind, who is looking back at her in horror. What is this?

More and more papers rain down on the Tiergarten. Beatrice wades through them in silence as she walks home. They are pressed against the windows, pushed up against the doors, buried amongst flower pots. One has snuck through the chimney. Shoshana brings another inside. Konrad, Claudette, and Albert are huddled around one as Beatrice walks inside. Konrad quickly hides it behind his back, but what is the point in that. Beatrice holds up a copy of her own.

“My own army is attacking me,” she says. “My own fucking army.”

Her hands grasp the paper so tight that they begin to shake. The trio nervously eyes her trembling limbs.

“You want to throw something don’t you?” asks Albert.

“Yes.”

Konrad motions with his chin. “There’s a vase on the table behind you.”

The vase is smooth and white. Tiny, intricate blue lines criss-cross it, creating a haphazard maze. Beatrice turns it over in her hand. Moments later, it shatters into a dozen pieces as it slams into the ground. Thick shards litter the floor around Beatrice’s feet, and she breathes heavily.

“Better?” asks Albert.

She looks at him sharply. “No.” she says. She puts her hands on her waist and looks out of the window, half hoping that the planes will still be visible.

“I’m going to kill them.” she says. “I am going to fucking kill them.”

Konrad pulls together his sources over the next day. They tell him that the photograph was originally published in a small newspaper in Rotterdam, and quickly shut down by the Gestapo. But not before an intelligence officer could take it back to London it would seem. Once the Daily Express picked it up, it spread like wildfire.

“It’s not aimed at you, kleyntshik,” Konrad tells Beatrice two days later. “It’s aimed at Bohm. They’re trying to ruin his reputation, discredit him. They don’t even know your name.”

“But they know my face,” she says. “Everyone at work knows that it’s me. I can’t walk into the office without some gossip-craved bitch whispering and looking at me.”

Four days after the bombing, Beatrice does not even make it to her desk. She walks inside to see Hedda scrubbing at the wall over her desk. The brunette stutters and tries to hide what she is cleaning, but Beatrice has already seen it. In bright red ink, each letter as big as her face, the word ‘slut’ is written out. One of the other secretaries, Charlotte, stifles a giggle.

“It was here when I came in,” says Hedda quietly. “It won’t come off.”

Charlotte giggles again. “I wonder who wrote it.” she says. “Rosa must be mad at you.”

“I’m not fucking her father,” Beatrice says quietly, slipping her handbag from her shoulder. “And anyone with half a brain would recognise that.”

“Sounds like something a slut would say.”

Charlotte squeals as Beatrice’s open palm strikes her cheek, and as Adenauer walks through the door. The room is silent. Adenauer’s eyes dart from the whimpering secretary clutching her face, to the red ink splashed across the wall, to Beatrice who stands red and panting in the middle of it all.

“Come with me,” he mutters. Beatrice scowls and dumps her handbag onto her desk and follows Adenauer into his office.

When Adenauer finally turns to look at her, it is not with a haughty scowl of irritation, nor of a furious glower. It is reserved and drawn-back. The corners of his mouth turn down. He folds his hand on the desk and solemnly meets her eye.

“You know that we are doing our best to clear these rumours,” he says. “Such slander cannot go unchecked, especially if it is untrue. And we will find the person responsible for the defacement above your desk.”

“Thank you sir.”

“And I’ll have a stern word with Miss Koller about her comments.” he says. “I suspect she is not the one behind it, but she’s a well-connected woman among the world of miscreants. She knows something. In the meantime, I recommend you take the day off. I’ve noticed some rather…vicious comments being aimed in your direction, and we need time to officially address the rumours in order to allow you to work properly.”

“That’s very kind of you sir.” says Beatrice. “But I think I can handle it.”

“I’m sure you can,” says Adenauer. “But I’m insisting. You’ll not be docked any pay for it.”

Beatrice weighs up her options. Leave for the day, get paid for it, and appear weak for not putting up with a minor case of bullying. Or, stay here, and wait for it to get even worse.

Then she remembers that she does not care about these people’s opinions of her. And she could use a day off.

“If you insist, sir.” says Beatrice. “How long would I—”

“Only a few days.” says Adenauer. “Trust me, once Dr Goebbels has a sharp word with them, they’ll not bother you again. Have you spoken to Frau Muller since the leaflets were dropped?”

“We were together when the raid happened,” says Beatrice. “She’s been very supportive about it, thank God.”

“Have you spoken to her father?”

“No.”

“And you’re aware he’s leaving for North Africa tomorrow?”

“Yes.” says Beatrice. “I’m quite glad actually. It might give the rumours time to die down whilst we’re in separate countries.”

“My thoughts precisely,” says Adenauer. “Now off you go, enjoy the time off. Someone will call you once we’ve cleared this all up.”

“Thank you sir.” Beatrice pushes her chair in and makes for the door.

Beatrice ignores the sobbing Charlotte as she scoops up her handbag and strides out of the door. She lets the great marble buildings fall away behind her; they may as well be dust now. As she walks, she imagines each and every cobblestone she steps on crumbling to pieces and falling into the void. She wants this world to fall apart as she leaves it behind. Her heart swells at the thought of this government turning to ashes. But is it pricked by the idea of being shut up inside for days on end. She does not know how Albert and Claudette manage it.

She spends her first day freedom trying to learn a new song for her violin; the Kalendar Prince. But the notes do not register in her brain, nor is she motivated to move her fingers with enough dexterity to make any sort of reasonable tone. She ends up flopping down on her bed and watching the sun creep across the wall. It is dark in here, but sharp creases of sunlight flitter through the lacy curtains and dance on the opposite walls. They are the most intricate shadow puppets, figures woven from darkness itself.

On the second day, sick of her boredom and whinging, Konrad sends her to the bakery. The shopping district of Berlin contains some of Beatrice’s favourite buildings. The streets are wide and bright with sunshine, and the winding offshoot of the Spree gives off a light scent of brine and algae. The stores are tall and narrow, and coated in thick, dark, glossy paint that reflects the beaming sun with such ferocity that Beatrice often needs to shield her eyes. The bakery in particular is gorgeous. It is dark green, and the glass doors are always throw open to reveal the seductive smell of hot jam, fresh bread, and sweet pastries. It is a dark, cool place with enough sunlight flitting through the wide windows to illuminate the front half, and always so quiet. Beatrice buys the usual; two loaves of sourdough, a half dozen rolls, and a pack of chocolate chip cookies. As an afterthought, she slips in five slices of brownie. Food has never solved her problems, but then again, neither has starving.

As Beatrice steps back out onto the cobblestones, a drawling voice calls out to her.

“Miss Baumann.”

Beatrice looks around. There is no one else on this street, save for a pair of children several hundred feet away. The only presence is a familiar, sleek car sitting by the curb. The figure behind the wheel has his cap pulled down.

“Alexander?” Beatrice peers through the window. “What do you want?”

“Get in.”

Beatrice looks up and down. She hopes that the baker cannot see who she is talking to. Against her better judgement, she opens the door and slips inside. She awkwardly balances her bag on her lap and pulls on the seatbelt as Bohm pulls away from the pavement.

“Aren’t you supposed to be leaving today?” she asks. “For North Africa?”

“Not until noon,” he says. “I haven’t had a chance to speak with you until now, and I do firmly believe we ought to have a word with one another.”

Beatrice looks at him, then at the road again. “What is there to talk about?”

“Well, it isn’t so much a conversation as it is a word of advice,” says Bohm. “Left here, yes?”

“Yes.”

Bohm turns the car onto an adjacent road and begins the journey back to Beatrice’s street. He is silent as he does this, concentrating on the winding roads ahead of him. Or maybe he is using it as a moment to think. To plan his response and deliver it with a surgeon’s precision. As always.

“I am already in the public eye,” he says. “The German people know far more about me than I’m comfortable with, but that cannot be helped. Reporters seem to swarm me and my family wherever I go. Katrin can’t even go out to coffee without some greedy journalist calling after her. You though, you’re relatively unknown. But, give it another day, and you’ll have them following you at every corner. They don’t care whether it’s true or not. They want to know what you have to say, and not matter what comes out of your mouth, they will twist it to fit their own stories,”

“Isn’t the government trying to stop it?” says Beatrice. “Isn’t Goebbels trying to stop it?”

“Trying is the key word here,” says Bohm. “Four people have been arrested for indecent articles already, but every time we shut one down, another appears from nowhere. So, my word of advice, do not speak to the press. No matter how hard they push.”

Beatrice’s skin crawls at the thought of being crowded by ambitious journalists. She has seen the crowding and jeering in films, how the handsome and gorgeous celebrities always push through as if they wade through nothing more than calf-high water. But people are not so easy to step through. She can keep her mouth closed all she likes, but that won’t stop them from harassing her.

“Just out of curiosity,” she says. “Why are you warning me about this?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I do have good manners,” he says. “And I feel obliged to tell people about things before they happen. I don’t hate you, remember?”

“I remember,” says Beatrice. “You do seem a lot more…tolerant of me as of late.”

“You are quite tolerable when you’re not breaking the law.”

“I’m sorry about the journalists irritating you.”

“It isn’t your fault.” He does not say it comfortingly, not as a friend might do. It is a fact, a concrete remark that cannot be faulted. And he is right. It is not Beatrice’s fault. She clenches her fists.

“No. It’s not my fault,” she agrees. “It’s yours.”

Bohm furrows his brows. “Mine?”

“Yours,” says Beatrice firmly. “You kissed me on the cheek. I…I…I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but I’ve only just started to wonder…why?”

Bohm shrugs his shoulders. “Heat of the moment?”

“It was a dance Alexander, not a love-struck confession.” she says drily. “Or are you really that starved of affection?”

“I’m happily married you silly girl, I have affection enough,”

“Why would you kiss me then?”

Bohm scoffs. “You make it sound like I propositioned you.”

“And that’s exactly what Germany thinks.” Beatrice throws her hands in the air. “That Alexander Bohm, a war hero and supposedly devoted husband, is running into the arms of a woman barely a third of his age. Because you made the stupid decision to kiss my cheek, while everyone was looking, and let it be photographed.”

Bohm sighs. “You didn’t exactly protest it at the time.”

Beatrice elbows him in the ribs. He howls in pain and the car swerves. Bohm grabs the steering wheel and rights it quickly, swearing under his breath as another car zooms past.

“You can’t hit me when I’m driving.” he says admonishingly. “At least wait until we’ve pulled over.”

“Well fucking pull over then.”

Bohm glances at her for a split second. “You want to hit me?”

“Yes.”

He tenses his jaw, screwing up his face into contempt. And to Beatrice’s surprise, he pulls the car over to the side of a quiet road. He undoes his seatbelt and turns to face Beatrice.

“Hit me then,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets. “Go on.”

Beatrice slaps him across the face hard enough to make his head smack into the window.

He groans and clutches his mouth. A tiny drop of blood rolls across his pristine white teeth, and drips down his pointed chin. Bohm stamps his foot and hisses expletives so vulgar that Beatrice turns red at the neck. But she does not let it show.

“You’ve ruined everything, Alexander,” she spits. “Your reputation, my reputation, and probably Katrin’s, and Eugen’s as well. We’re not going to be able to walk around peacefully anymore. No one will look at either of us in the same way. Even if there were some way to refute the rumours, gossip sticks like honey, and it does not wash out.”

“I didn’t take that photograph.” He reaches across the gears and grabs the front of her skirt, bunching the striped fabric up in his fists. “I didn’t send it to London, and I didn’t ask for my name to be slandered with the idea of an affair with some haughty, self-satisfied, hypercritical whore.”

“I’m the whore?” Beatrice places her hand to her chest. “I’m the whore? I’m not the married one here, and I’m not the one being accused of an extra-marital affair. According to the rest of the country, I’m just the side-piece to a husband’s crime.”

“You are making this infinitely more dramatic than it needs to be,” Bohm hisses. “All I wanted was to give you one piece of advice. Now I’m bleeding, you’re on the verge of tears, and we’re arguing in my car of all places.”

She firmly shoves him away from her, and he lets the soft texture of her skirt slip from his fingers. Beatrice reaches for the door handle, but Bohm seizes her wrist.

“What, now you’re just going to walk away?” says Bohm. “I’m trying to fix this, and all you’re doing is elevating the situation.”

“Why do you think I’m leaving?” says Beatrice, her head snapping around. “So I don’t elevate it anymore. I’ll just let you handle it, shall I? Seeing as you’re so skilled at managing delicate situations.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re dancing around my question like it’s trying to burn you.” says Beatrice. “Heat of the moment? That’s your excuse for kissing my cheek?”

“Oh, for Christs sake,” Bohm mutters, rubbing his face with a weary hand. “On the cheek. Not your lips, your cheek. It’s bad enough that the newspapers are blowing the story up; I don’t need you overreacting as well.”

“I want to know why you did it.”

Bohm sneers. “I don’t know.”

“That’s not an answer Alexander,” Beatrice spits. “Why did you do it?”

“I don’t—”

“Tell me!”

“I did it because I felt something, Magdalen.”

He has snapped. His brash, cold voice fills the car, ballooning and swirling with enough force to crack a rock in two. It hurts Beatrice’s ears, and she has to sit back further as if she has been struck. Bohm’s chest rises and falls like water lapping at a cliff, and his long fingers are curled into a tight fist.

“Something?” Beatrice says quietly. “No, no, no, no…what kind of something?”

Bohm groans, locking his hands behind his head, and looks as if he would love nothing more than to sink through the ground. A million thoughts soar through Beatrice’s mind, each one more horrible than the last. She fears the worst. Not hatred, but its core opposite.

“Alexander,” she says, her soft voice breaking. “Tell me.”

“I…” Bohm drops his hands, and lets his head rest back. He mutters all the while. Some of it makes sense; some of it does not.

“You meet someone new after so long in one place,” he says. “And it reminds you of the old days when everything was new and unexplored. We’re human; we cannot help but be curious.”

He stops and stares at Beatrice, who looks back at him, agape. What is he saying?

“It’s not love, Miss Baumann,” he says. “You can be sure of that. Nowhere near love. It is…oh, just humour me for a minute, would you?”

Beatrice considers denying him his humour, and leaving anyway. But she wants, she needs, to know what this is. If it is not love, and if it is not hate, then what is it?

“Fine.”

“What do you love more than anything else in the world?” he asks. “A hobby, a talent, a…a concept?”

Beatrice thinks for a moment. Music, or engineering? Bars of notes, or bars of metal? The tense strings of a violin and smooth ivories of a piano, or the cold grip of a screwdriver and sparking hiss of a welder? Her hobby, or her career?

“Music,” she says. “I love music.”

“Music,” Bohm repeats. “And when you play it, it makes you happier than anything else in the world, yes? You touch the strings of a violin and you can see the notes whirling through the air. Your fingers skate over a piano, and the softest, most beautiful notes make the sweetest melodies. You know music, and when you play it, there is that indescribable sort of contentedness with life. When you listen to it, it feels like alcohol. That little buzz, that urge to play the song yourself. And when you hear that song, that one song that means more to you than anything else in the world, you feel…you feel like you’re a part of it.”

Beatrice thinks over his complex words. Many of them she did not understand, but the overall beauty of it is clear to her. To him, she is not the music itself, merely the idea of it. Beautiful and sweet at times, sharp and dangerous at others, difficult and powerful on the darkest days. She knows how he feels about her.

“I’m an aesthetic to you,” she says quietly. “You don’t like me, you like the idea of me. If you stripped away what I represent, war and the enemy…that’s what you like about me?”

“Yes,” says Bohm, exhaling; Beatrice finally understands him. “Your humour, your intelligence, and what you mean to Rose. That’s what you are in my eyes.”

They should be beautiful words. Coming from anyone else, they should make her feel as if she transcends what it means to be loved. But they are his words. This Nazi general who has tried to have her killed or arrested on more than one occasion, this loving husband who lies to his wife about the orders he gives every day, this devoted father and grandfather who has children that believe what he does and who he pretends to be is what all humans beings should be. Beatrice’s eyes lock on a stray paper bag floating down the street.

“I’m not human to you,” she says. “Not even worth that bag in the middle of the road.”

“That’s not—”

“Aesthetics are not real things,” she says. “They’re not objects; you can’t touch them. They don’t have feelings. They themselves are feelings, and not worthy of consideration, because you cannot change the aesthetic of something. It is as undeniably existent as the object itself.”

“Listen to me—”

“If the aesthetic of music is dancing notes and beautiful melodies,” she says. “Then what am I?”

She stares at Bohm until his resolve wavers. He drums his finger across the steering wheel, the words he is being forced to utter more than his iron-strength typically encounters. He is out of his depth in a matter that he has caused, and Beatrice feels no guilt in making him hurt.

“I can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t tell you,”

“You can’t, or you don’t want to?”

“Haven’t I poured my heart out enough to you?” he says, that iron and authority returning at the snap of his voice. “I’ve worsened things enough by admitting that what I feel about you is not hatred. We are supposed to be on opposite sides of war, and the fact that I’ve not threatened you with arrest during this singular conversation is treason to my country enough.”

Beatrice’s blood turns to ice. There was one little remark in there, a tiny slip of a phrase, that brings a new and terrifying concept to mind. She places her next words as if she were walking upon ice. Tentative. Slow. Always thinking one step ahead.

“Is the reason that you haven’t arrested me yet because of this…aesthetic relationship you’ve discovered?”

Bohm turns red and looks at his knees. It is.

Beatrice takes one deep breath. All of her efforts with Rosalind, all of the lies she has told to keep herself anchored turned out to be nothing in comparison to the weight that Bohm’s impression of her holds. The only reason she is still free is because he feels something, not love, but something, for her.

“Is there any chance that you’ll abandon this…opinion of me?” she asks.

Bohm shakes his head, his lips pressed tightly together. Beatrice nods slowly; she does not know what else to do.

“There is…no version of this,” she says. “Where this aesthetic amounts to anything more. If I were you, I would find it within myself to hate me again.”

“You would rather we hate one another than respect each other?”

Beatrice pushes open the car door. “You don’t deserve my respect.”

The reporters come for her on the fifth day.

By then, at least twelve articles have been published surrounding Bohm and his family. A shot of him wedging through a crowd to get to his office. Katrin sitting stone face in a café with her friend attempting to block her from view, Rosalind and Dietrich drawing the blinds in their home, and a blurry snapshot of Johannes through a wire fence as he climbs into a fighter plane. Not once do the family appear in a photograph together. The journalists are trying to split them apart.

Wednesday morning is the first day Beatrice hears them. Clamouring, whispering, waiting. She dares to pull back her curtains to just a sliver. Six, seven, maybe eight journalists, and five photographers linger on the pavement and road surrounding Konrad’s house. She can see neighbours peering through their own curtains across the street, captivated by the scenes below. Beatrice huffs and lets the curtain fall back into place. It seems as if she isn’t going outside today.

She goes downstairs to find every curtain drawn. Albert and Claudette are nowhere to be seen.

“They’re staying upstairs,” says Konrad. “Just in case someone spots them through the window.”

“I’m sorry,”

“It isn’t your fault, kleyntshik.”

It is practically the same thing Bohm said. But he does not say it with the same unquestionable factual tone as him, but softer. Friendlier. Comforting Beatrice in the knowledge that she has not caused this great scandal.

And a month passes before Beatrice can go back to work.


	14. Operation Hollywood

The rumours do not die down; not all the way. But Bohm is in North Africa pushing his tanks through the sand dunes, and Beatrice is in Berlin behind a typewriter. The paint is removed from the wall above her desk, but smears of red still remain as if to taunt her. It seems that everything is taunting her. Charlotte and her foolish friends giggle at her whenever she walks into the room. Bold, drunken soldiers cheer as she walks by, praising her for ‘scoring a bastard as rich as General Bohm.’ In the weeks after the bombing, she is still a household name to the gossiping housewives with nothing better in their lives to do than admonish others for their choices. In the office, Hedda and Adenauer are the only ones who speak to her with any sort of civility. But even then, they becomes distant. Who wants to be the one affiliating herself with the mistress? The homewrecker? The whore?

Beatrice needs a distraction. And with Bohm in Africa for the next few month, it seems to her like the perfect opportunity for another mission. All she needs are leads, concrete evidence with which to find targets from. And to find them, all she needs is a well-connected and secretive informer. Konrad.

“You want me to do some snooping of my own?” He raises an eyebrow at her when she asks him for help. “Isn’t that your job?”

“I’m stuck living with you for a reason Eugen; you might as well be useful,” she says. “And…no bombs this time. Please and thank you.”

The memory of those corpses being carried from the propaganda building still lingers in the corners of Beatrice’s dreams. It was almost a year ago, but harsh. Sharp. They ambush her in the quiet moments where she walks the opulent halls of the propaganda ministry, or when she is pinning her curls back in the morning. She does not want a repeat of that day.

As begrudging as he is, it only takes Konrad three days to come back to Beatrice with anything of note. It is late after a long day of work, as Beatrice sits upstairs running her bow over her violin, the lilting melodies of Pas de Deux drifting through the house.

“Knock, knock,” he says, pushing the door open. “Read this.”

“Oh don’t tell me it’s another piece about me and Bohm,” says Beatrice, spying the newspaper in his hand. “They crop up every now and again, and I’m sick of it.”

“No, it’s not about you,” he says. “Second page.”

He tosses the days newspaper into her lap. She flips to the next page and begins to read the story aloud.

“Reichsjugendfuhrer Walter von Lehning,” she says. “Head of the Hitler Youth, touring elite Berlin schools.”

She looks up at Konrad. “And this is useful…how?”

“Keep reading.”

“The Reichsjugendfuhrer has so far visited four of the largest and most elite schools in Berlin, but is also expected to visit schools in outlying cities, including Potsdam, Oranienburg, and Brandenburg over the coming weeks.”

Beatrice looks up again. “I still don’t get it.”

Konrad scoffs and snatches the newspaper back. “You’re useless, do you know that?”

“You do remind me so often.”

“Brandenburg is a good hour and a half out of the city,” he ploughs on. “And at least an hour out of Potsdam. A full hour where von Lehning has nothing but his car and a few soldiers.”

He stares at Beatrice until his plan sneaks.

“Sorry, let me straighten this out,” she says. “You want me to…kill? Von…Lehning?”

“Well, no. Not you specifically,” says Konrad. “Because we both know that would be a complete disaster. No, I can find someone willing to do it. What we need to do is find out the exact route, date, and time von Lehning will take to get to Brandenburg.”

“I work in the propaganda ministry, in administration!” Beatrice protests. “The Hitler Youth headquarters aren’t even in the same borough.”

“Well lucky for you, I happen to know several people that work in his office.” he says. “Meaning you won’t have to do any searching yourself.”

“That’s all well and good,” says Beatrice. “As is killing von Lehning, except for the rather minor detail, hear me out, where von Lehning isn’t actually important to the government.”

Konrad splutters, and stumbles back against the wall in an exaggerated air of shock. “Not important? He’s in charge of the Hitler Youth.”

“Yes, the glorified Boy Scouts,” says Beatrice. “If we knock out von Lehning, another idiot fills his place, life goes on, and nothing changes.”

“Kleyntshik, I am indescribably glad that you are not a businesswoman, because you have absolutely no intuition,” says Konrad. “Von Lehning’s deputy is Artur Axmann, who is, like you’ve just described, an idiot. Once he’s in charge, he’ll blunder the whole operation. These brainwashed children will slowly become disillusioned with the idea of National Socialism, they’ll be poorly trained when they join the Wehrmacht, and Germany’s quality of troops will decrease before you can say ‘I surrender.’ It’s genius.”

Beatrice is not so convinced that von Lehning is the target they should be aiming for. But if he is as important to the government as Konrad claims, and as easy to kill as this tour might suggest, then what is the harm in attempting it? The possibility of weakening Nazi troops for the benefit of the British is tempting. Even if it does come at the cost of thousands of German lives.

“If you tell me what the rest of your plan is,” says Beatrice. “Then I’ll tell you how genius you are.”

“This contact of mine, she’s von Lehning’s personal secretary. Secretive little viper, and goes by about a dozen different names depending on who she’s talking to. To von Lehning and the general public, she’s Charlotte Lorenz. To her business associates, including me and you, she’s Heidi Vogt. And to the…undesirable members of society, she’s Viktoria van Niekerk.”

“Which one is her real name?”

Konrad shrugs. “No idea. Probably not any of the ones I’ve just listed. She can help us with our little…outing. Tomorrow evening, half past nine, at a little bar in Spandau. She can put together a plan, but no doubt we’ll need to get drunk together to hear it.”

Beatrice sighs. “Wonderful. I could use a good hangover.”

“Oh, couldn’t we all?” Konrad grins.

He turns to leave, but holds up a hand and stops himself.

“One more thing,” he says. “You know that backless dress you wore to the Christmas party?”

“Mm?”

“Wear that,” he says. “There might be an element of charm to this, and Heidi doesn’t have a particular persuasion when it comes to companions.”

He closes the door with a warm, but mocking smile, and leaves their plans for the next night swirling through Beatrice’s mind.

“Brilliant,” she mutters aloud. “Now I’m prostituting myself for the good of England.”

The westernmost borough of Berlin is an industrialists dream. Grey, dull factories that glow faintly behind weak blackout curtains and emit the last of the days choking, black smog. Weary workers coated with ash and rust stumble for home, or the nearest bar. In the darkest streets, the unsavoury linger, drunken and leering. Soldiers young and old, factory workers, off-duty policemen, and women who wear more skin than fabric. Beatrice shivers, and wishes that she had bought a coat with her.

Konrad walks confidently beside her. He wears a tuxedo and black bowtie, his dark hair swept back elegantly. He has walked these streets before. These poor, dark, inebriated streets where no government official or proud general would ever dream to walk. What they would say if they saw Konrad here.

Nestled not far from the avenue of factories, past rows and rows of dilapidated houses, come the bars. The bistros. The nightclubs. In war, they are not loud and bright, but they are enough to attract the attention of those on the ground. People pour in and out, sometimes in pairs, sometimes in groups, but never alone. The faint trails of alcohol and music spill onto the streets like an evening mist, wrapping around Beatrice’s legs and threatening to pull her in.

They come to a small, dimly lit bar at the end of one street, named Neid am Dukestrasse. The guard at the door registers Konrad’s appearance with a curt nod. His eyes barely sweep over Beatrice, who is practically clutching onto his arm.

“I don’t like this,” she murmurs.

“It’s not particularly elegant,” says Konrad. “But Heidi refused to meet anywhere else. And we’ll be able to talk without being overheard.”

“That doesn’t help.”

Konrad shrugs. “You’ll be fine.” he says. “A quick word of advice, Heidi knows that we’re not niece and uncle, but she doesn’t know that you’re…not from here. As far as she’s concerned, you’re affiliated with the German resistance. Got it?”

“Crystal clear.”

It seems to Beatrice like only the most hedonistic of souls would ever linger in a place like this. The main room is dark, lit only by dim yellowish globes on the walls and behind the bar. Dingy tables are shrouded with the mist of cigarettes and other undesirable toxins, and the scent of sharp alcohol dances on the back of her throat. It is barely nine thirty, but the bar is already packed full of guests, each outfit more daring than the last. They sway to the music, closer than strangers should ever be to one another, and call for more liquor in slurred voices. The bartender should cut them off. But he will not.

“That’s her,” says Konrad, motioning through the crowd. “At the corner table.”

Beatrice peers through the swaying crowd. Heidi is nestled into a small table crowded with at least half a dozen other strangers, four empty wine bottles, and a haze of smoke so thick that Beatrice cannot make out the woman’s features. They draw closer to the table, and Heidi’s eyes snap up to them. She sets down the glass clutched between her perfectly manicured fingernails and glides towards them as if skating across ice.

“Well, well, well,” she purrs. “How many years have passed since we’ve been here together, Eugen?”

“I’ve lost count,” says Konrad. “How are you, Heidi?”

“Oh, much better now,” she says. “I’m making a name for myself, earning money, and living the high life. And clearly you’ve moved on.”

At that last remark, her narrow eyes glide to Beatrice. Her gaze is penetrating, and Beatrice wants nothing more than to retreat outside.

“Erm…we’re not together,” Konrad says, motioning between himself and Beatrice. “This is Magdalen. Lena, Heidi.”

Beatrice can only manage a stiff smile. She has never known how to act around people as self-assured as Heidi. To be polite would come across as naïve. To be rude would appear aggressive. There is a fine middle point that Beatrice has learnt to tread.

Heidi takes a deep drag of her cigarette, letting it burn until it is nearly at her fingers. She softly exhales, and grey smoke spills from her painted lips.

“What do you want?” she says. “It’s not personal, is it?”

“Would I have brought a guest if it were personal?

Heidi huffs. “I guess not. Go buy us a few drinks. Us girls will go find a quieter table.”

Her long fingers wrap around Beatrice’s wrist, and she begins to pull her through the crowd. Beatrice gives Konrad a helpless stare as she is lead away. He can only respond with an amused grin.

At an empty table, Heidi pulls a new packet of cigarettes from her purse. She looks dubious as she pulls out her lighter.

“Let me guess,” she says. “You don’t smoke, do you blondie?”

“No, I smoke.” says Beatrice. She accepts the subsequently offered cigarette and lets Heidi light it. She tries her hardest to keep her expression neutral as the angular woman’s fierce stare remains keenly locked on her.

“So,” says Heidi. “If this little soiree isn’t personal, what is it?”

“Erm…I think I should let Eugen explain that.” says Beatrice. “He knows more about it than I do.”

Heidi huffs, and twirls her already dying cigarette around her fingers. How can she smoke that fast? As if provoked, Beatrice takes another drag.

“How do you two know each other?” asks Heidi. She is still pushing for information, and this meeting is beginning to feel more and more like an interrogation by the second. Beatrice just hopes that Heidi has the sense not to attempt to impale her skull with a knife.

“German resistance,” Beatrice says quietly, quickly thinking of the advice Konrad had given them before they’d walked inside. “We’re planning a new operation, and as a Jew and well-connected businessman, we knew we could trust him for our help. We met about a year ago, planning a mission that never went through.”

“And that’s what you’re asking me to help with tonight?”

Beatrice frowns. “He didn’t tell you?”

Heidi chuckles. “I haven’t seen him in years, gorgeous. Not until you and him walked in about two minutes ago.”

Beatrice feels herself go pale, and a rippling shiver runs across her skin. Did Konrad not tell Heidi that they needed her help? Is this a carefully planned ambush, and if so, why hasn’t he spoken to her in so long? Beatrice can tell, from the cautious interaction between the distant pair, that there is something between them still enforcing an icy relationship. She hopes that it will not put them, or their operation, in any danger.

Konrad returns with three glasses of red wine clutched in his hands. He sits beside Beatrice and takes a cigarette from Heidi.

“Blondie tells me that you’re working with the resistance,” says Heidi. “On some new operation. I’m assuming that’s why you want to talk to me, hm?”

God, Konrad didn’t tell her. This is an ambush. Beatrice bites her lip and turns to Konrad, a dark, emotionless stare on her face.

“Did you not tell her we’d be coming?”

“He didn’t,” says Heidi, lightning another cigarette. “Eugen, I don’t want to be spending my night listening to whatever it is the pair of you are up to. I have booze to drink, cigarettes to smoke, and at least three people to take home. Make it quick.”

Eugen clenches his teeth together. “I’d almost forgotten how brusque you are.” he says. “I’ll get to it then. We know that von Lehning, your boss, is due to tour a few schools in Brandenburg and Potsdam. We need to know the date, time, and route of that stretch of the tour.”

Contemplative, Heidi raises her cigarette to her lips, and does not speak again until it has burnt out. Konrad looks fit to burst. He is ready to snatch the cigarette from her and demand her help. But he sticks his hands into his pocket and stares at the table until she speaks.

“I won’t ask why,” says Heidi. “I know better than to get too involved with you resistance types.”

“Can you help us, or not?” asks Beatrice.

“I’ve got the timetable in my desk,” she says. “I can get everything to you within two days.”

“And you won’t tell a soul?” says Konrad. “If you tell anyone at all, all of us will be arrested within the day. You have to swear to complete and utter secrecy.”

“Of course,” says Heidi brightly. “Anything for an old sweetheart.”

Beatrice frowns at Konrad from over the rim of her glass. Both of her drinking companions note the confused stare. Konrad turns red, and Heidi grins.

“Ah, he hasn’t told you, has he?” she says. “Should you tell blondie, Eugen, or should I?”

“Tell me…what?” says Beatrice, setting down her glass.

Konrad takes a deep sip of his wine, emptying it almost all of the way. His eyes dart from Heidi to Beatrice, Beatrice to Heidi, until he realises that the both of them are waiting for him to speak. He sighs and tips the last of the alcohol into his mouth.

“We, um…we were engaged,” he says. “A few years back.”

Beatrice chokes on her own drink. Her spluttering earns the attention of displeased customer, who eye her with just about as much vivacity as an old dog, which most of them look like with their sagging cheeks and hooded eyes. Beatrice clears her throat as her cheeks burn.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “You two were engaged?”

“Dreadful thought, isn’t it?” says Heidi. “Being attached to this scrawny, grumpy bastard?”

“Or to a lying, demanding, harlot,” says Konrad. “With more lovers than you can count on both hands.”

“What can I say? I’m charming.”

Beatrice tries to imagine what ‘domestic bliss’ with Konrad might look like. His sleeping patterns are as irregular as an arrhythmia, meaning that you could find yourself waking up anywhere between four in the morning and one in the afternoon. His mood is just as temperamental. His standards are high, his ego is inflated, and he expects the world of the people he trusts. For all of his good values, Beatrice can understand why one might not want to find themselves attached to him. Not to mention the danger of marrying and starting a family with a Jew in Nazi Germany.

“Alright, as extensive as your past relationship might have been,” says Beatrice. “I don’t particularly give a fuck, and it’s not helping us get a hold of von Lehning’s schedule.”

To Beatrice’s surprise, Heidi bursts into witchlike laughter. Her sharp cackle draws the same attention from the old dogs that glared at Beatrice when she was choking.

“Oh, I’m starting to like you,” says Heidi. “Don’t worry yourself gorgeous, I can get a copy of that schedule for you. And not a single person will have a clue.”

She raises her glass to her lips and downs the rest of it in one gulp. She holds it out to Konrad.

“Your buy.”

“Actually, we have other places to be,” says Konrad. He stands up and beckons for Beatrice to follow suit. “Thank you Heidi.”

Heidi pouts and puts her glass down. “See, this is why I left you Eugen.” she says. “You’re always focussing on what you need, instead of other people.”

Beatrice can see the situation escalating, and Konrad is beginning to turn red. She grabs his wrist and begins to lead him away.

“She’s drunk, Eugen,” she whispers to him. “Ignore her.”

“She’s a sociopath,” he mutters. “And I left her, not the other way around.”

“I don’t really care right now, Eugen. Let’s just try to get back to the car without getting robbed.”

Heidi is true to her word, and within two days of their meeting at Neid am Dukestrasse, there comes a sharp knock downstairs. Konrad peers out of the window, and upon seeing his former fiancée, scampers into his office. Beatrice rolls her eyes at him before getting up to answer the door.

“You’ve got them?” she asks, eyes landing on a neat folder in Heidi’s long fingers.

“Give me something hard to do next time,” she says. “I’m pretty sure I spend more time in von Lehning’s office than von Lehning.”

“That’s…concerning,” says Beatrice. She takes the folder quickly, before the neighbours can see it. “Thank you, Heidi. You have no clue how useful this is.”

“Not a worry, sweetheart,” says Heidi. “And listen, when you’re done with it? Burn it.”

“Duly noted.”

Heidi moves to walk down the stairs, and Beatrice moves to close the door. But before she can, the tall woman turns back around, forcing Beatrice to leave the door open.

“When you get a chance,” says Heidi. “Can you tell Eugen I’m sorry? About the other night.”

“Erm…alright.”

Heidi smiles thinly. “Thank you.”

And she is gone. Her dark trench coat swishes in the wind, and the mysterious woman disappears down the street without a trace. Only the scent of her perfume lingers as Beatrice closes the door. The lock has barely clicked before Konrad appears on the landing between the floors.

“Is she gone?”

Beatrice sighs and leans against the wall. “Why don’t you want to talk to her?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” says Konrad. “You haven’t been engaged before.”

“Then why would you want to talk to her in the first place?” says Beatrice. “You reach out to her for the first time in five years, but then you don’t talk to her about your relationship, and avoid her.”

“It’s complicated—”

“She obviously still has feelings for you, Eugen,” says Beatrice. “And maybe she’s…intense, but I think she at least deserves a clean explanation.”

“I think I was fairly clear with her when we broke up,” says Konrad. He strides down the last stretch of stairs and moves for the fridge. He begins to pour a glass of wine. “She cheated on me with six other men. Six. At the same time. In the same bed, I’ve been told.”

“And yet you’re the one avoiding her,” says Beatrice. “Shouldn’t she be the one afraid to talk to you?”

Konrad slams down the glass. “Kleyntshik, I’m not in the mood—”

“I’m just saying, you’re being childish.”

“That’s rich, coming from a girl who isn’t even twenty years old,” he spits, whirling around to meet her eyes. “Who has never been engaged, who hasn’t had a real job—”

“I’m a fucking spy.”

“—and who can’t even keep her nose out of other people’s business.” he says. “You’re a lot nicer when you keep your mouth shut.”

Beatrice hisses through her teeth. She presses the folder into Konrad’s chest.

“You are blowing this out of proportion,” she says. “I ask one bloody question, and you’re fuming at me. Go sort out our hitman, would you?”

“Yes ma’am,” grumbles Konrad. Beatrice’s narrowed eyes follow him until his coat is around his shoulders, his hat is pulled over his head, and the front door is swinging closed.

There is a squeak on the landing. Beatrice turns to see Albert and Claudette both leaning against the bannister, looking down at her with concern.

“You alright, Bee?” asks Albert.

Beatrice puts her hands on her hips. “Fine,” she mutters. “I’d forgotten how emotional stressful being a criminal is.”

“You’re not a criminal,” says Claudette.

“I’m as good as.” Beatrice snatches up Konrad’s untouched glass and skulls it. Upon second thought, she fishes the wine out of the fridge, along with a bottle of beer, and marches up to her room.

“I’ll be thoroughly wasted within three hours,” she says as she passes the lingering, concerned pair. “Come and stop me then, would you?”

It is six o’clock when Beatrice closes the door to her room and begins her blurry night. She underestimates how long it will take for her to become completely and utterly drunk, and her motor skills are inhibited before the clock has even struck eight.

That is why she does not go downstairs when the air raid alarms begin.

That is why she waves away Albert who tries to coax her downstairs.

That is why she ignores Claudette who pleads with her to move somewhere safer.

That is why she pulls her chair up to her window and sits with her elbows against the sill, and watches her army spiral and careen across the sky. Grey specks, dropping shining packages onto the world below. Great billowing clouds of fire and ash erupt in the sky, like fireworks of a pointless celebration. What a strange shade of purple and orange the sky is as plane tears it apart. Like the deepness of the wine she has just consumed, the vibrancy of the beer. And how they melt together where the two worlds collide, and the funny little streaks of grey that dying planes leave trailing behind them as they smash into the ground. It is infinitely more complex than the simple blue and black sky that we are taught in our youth.

She cannot hear the screams. The faint whumps and bangs are enough to keep her drunken state interested. Faint, but notable. Just enough to be dangerous, but not enough to scare her. Like the threat of a dog behind a fence with its hackles raised.

How simple it must be to be a pilot. Is that what draws Albert to the job? In the sky, is it just you and your unit. Planes cannot be stolen in mid-air. Lies cannot be told. Spies cannot function in the same state and efficiency as they might on the ground. You know who your enemy is. And you know who you are fighting for.


	15. A General and His Queen

REICHSJUGENDFUHRER WALTER VON LEHNING ASSASSINATED

LEADER OF HITLER YOUTH BRUTALLY MURDERED IN FINAL STAGES OF TOUR

VON LEHNING FAMILY IN MOURNING

NUMEROUS SUSPECTS IDENTIFIED IN WAKE OF VICIOUS ATTACK

The dark and sombre headlines hold the gaze of Germany for weeks after the assassination. A state funeral is held, to which Beatrice is required to attend. She does not dare smile in pride as the coffin is carried down the aisle, and once she catches a glimpse of Frau von Lehning sobbing into a handkerchief, she does not think she could bring herself to.

Then, another disaster strikes. In June, a minor Allied bombing takes a German unit in North Africa by surprise. Little damage is done, and only two soldiers are killed. But three tanks are destroyed in the blaze, and seventeen are injured. Among them, is Alexander Bohm. Beatrice cannot decide whether she is disappointed or relieved that it is only a broken wrist and minor burns. Anything more would mean devastation for Rosalind and the rest of the family, even if it did remove the one person that knows Beatrice’s true identity. But anything less would be inconsequential; harmless.

Some good does come out of his return; good for his family at least. Katrin’s birthday is just around the corner, and according to Rosalind, is her sixtieth.

“It’s an important birthday, obviously,” Rosalind tell her over lunch. “Mutti didn’t want anything too extravagant, but Vati insisted. I think he’s apologising for being away for four months. And your uncle’s been invited as well, if he’s free.”

With another mission under her belt, Beatrice is free every night for the next few weeks, or so she hopes. And she is glad for the opportunity to get out of the house. Her row with Konrad was months ago, but it went unapologised for. Ever since then, the air between them has been rigid. Beatrice knows that there is something he is not telling her, but he refuses to. It’s his right not to tell her, and she accepts that, but she just wishes that he wouldn’t be so uptight about it. It would do the both of them some good to relax. Even if that meant getting drunk whilst being surrounded by dozens of Nazis and their wives. Not to mention that the last thing that Beatrice wants is to set foot in a house belonging to Alexander Bohm. Even if there is going to be food.

Konrad, much to her surprise and delight, is not of the same opinion.

“You know those two are richer than Hitler, right?” he says. “They have a house in Florence, kleyntshik. Florence!”

Beatrice frowns. “I…wouldn’t have thought that you’d be so comfortable with this,” she says. “This party is just as dangerous for you as it is for me.”

“I’ve been hiding under their noses since the last war,” says Konrad. “I’m sure I can survive a party. Especially a party being thrown by what are literally the richest couple in Western Europe. God, I wonder what it would be like to have that much money.”

Beatrice looks pointedly around the room. Her eyes sweep over the glittering ceiling lights, the polish grand piano, and the mountain of delicate china dishes that they are just about to start cleaning. Luxuries she has never had.

“You’re plenty rich,” she says.

“I disagree. But thank you.”  


The night of the birthday party arrives. After sitting around waiting for Konrad to fix his bowtie, he finally appears with a grand flourish. His suit is creaseless, his bow-tie straight, and his dark hair swept back into a neat quiff.

“How do I look?” he asks, twirling around elegantly with his hands out. Albert wolf-whistles.

“Clark Gable himself is swooning,” says Beatrice. “Come on, stop fixing your hair. Stop, it’s fine!”

“Listen, while you’re there,” says Albert. “Steal something from those rich bastards for me, yeah? A new watch maybe. Claudette?”

“Something with diamonds maybe.”

Beatrice scoffs, pulling on her coat. “Right, because neat-freak Katrin Bohm wouldn’t notice that her and her husband’s possessions are going missing.”

Albert shrugs. “Worth a shot I guess. Have fun.”

For the entirety of the drive between across the Tiergarten, Beatrice finds herself stuck in close quarters with a man who will not stop gushing about the many luxuries of the Bohm family. And if a man as wealthy as Konrad is drooling at the idea of luxuries, then Beatrice can only imagine what her reaction will be.

“I mean it kleyntshik, they’re filthy rich,” says Konrad. “Generals make a pretty handsome salary. And Alexander’s father used to be a businessman himself, right up until he died, so half of his money went to him. Oh, and Katrin, apparently she was a ballerina in her day. She travelled all over the place, riches and fame wherever she went.”

“Was she really?” Beatrice struggles to see Katrin in such a demanding and severe sport. The tight buns, the rigid poses, the strict regimens of exercise, diet, and practise. It all seems so tense in comparison to the soft and gentle woman that Beatrice is used to.

The house is on the opposite side of the Tiergarten, just on the edge, and with a view that overlooks the vast, green expanse. Its exterior alone makes Beatrice’s jaw drop. Built from creamy white limestone bricks, edged with a dark cobblestone wall, filled with luscious gardens, the Bohm mansion stands at an impressive three floors tall, and is double the width of Konrad’s house. It is an architects dream. How many minute details must be engraved into this ginormous home, how many precious gems within their belongings, how many millions upon millions of dollars. Maybe even billions.

Lights shine through almost every window, and Beatrice can see the darkened silhouettes through the large windows. Apparently the rules of war do not apply when you are rich. Black out curtains and rations are irrelevant when you have birthdays to celebrate.

“Saint Peter,” Beatrice breathes. “I think their driveway is worth more than my house in England.”

“I think their driveway is worth more than my house,” says Eugen. “Not to mention the car, my goodness.”

They park along a dozen other sleek, black cars, most of which appear to be makes just as expensive as Bohm’s. Beatrice opens the car door with surgical precision. She could not bear to think what would happen if she were to dent one of them. As they approach the door, she is almost afraid to knock on the door, lest she get fingerprints on it. But her fears are solved for her, and the door is opened before she can even raise her fist. A maid takes their coats and ushers them into the ballroom. The ballroom.

“That’s a lot of Nazis,” Konrad whispers. “I’m starting to have second thoughts about this.”

“It’s almost as if I warned you,” says Beatrice. “Don’t worry. Just get drunk and keep your mouth shut.”

The ballroom is already packed full of guests dressed in every colour of the rainbow. Glittering dresses, immaculate suits, and shining jewellery glares at Beatrice from every angle. Jazz music bounces from a small band in the corner, and the scent of alcohol has already begun to rise. Before Beatrice can stop him, Konrad has spotted an old acquaintance and dashes away to greet them. She huffs, waiting for him to look back and realise that he has abandoned her, but to no avail. She searches the room for a familiar face, but there is none. She knows that Rosalind, Dietrich, and Johannes must be here, but for the life of her, she cannot see them.

Then she spots Bohm across the room, back against the wall, gingerly holding a wine glass in his right hand. His left hand, his dominant hand, is wrapped with bandages. He wears his Waffenrock uniform again, but something about it is different. Brighter. Crisper. Prouder. Despite it though, every few seconds he winces, as if the sound of heels clicking and the saxophone blaring hurts his head.

This is the first time since their argument that Beatrice has seen him. They left everything on a sour note, and she has spent the past four months beating herself up about it. Is Alexander Bohm deserving of her respect? No. But was their row the right way to go about things? No. Fighting rarely solves the worlds problem, if this war was anything to attest to. And Beatrice has always preferred civility to hostility. She takes a glass from a passing wait and sidles up beside Bohm. He does not notice her.

“You look like shit.”

Bohm swears and jumps back. He puts his uninjured hand to his heaving chest as Beatrice cackles.

“Christ woman, you’ll give me a heart attack.” he says. “Which, under current circumstances, is not completely out of the question.”

“Ah, poor Alexander,” Beatrice simpers. Then she spies the marks under his eyes. Greyish-purple tinged skin bags under the both of them, and almost a complete ring around his left eye. His nose, which used to be long and thin, is now crooked. It looks as if it was made of wax, and someone has simply come along and twisted it to the side.

“Good lord, you look even worse close up.” Beatrice says as she studies his face closely. “Is your nose broken?”

“Unfortunately.” he grumbles. “It’s that noticeable?”

It’s amusing, after so many months of being petrified of this man, to see him so physically uncomfortable.

“No,” Beatrice thinks. “Keep it together woman. No sadism. Civility.” She quickly rearranges her features into those of pleasantry and openness.

“At the risk of sounding mocking,” she says. “How are things in Africa?”

“…sandy.”

Beatrice presses her lips together to fight back a wild bark of laughter. He said it in such a candid, simple way; too simple for an educated man of Bohm’s standing.

“There are hundreds upon thousands of words in the German language,” Beatrice says. “And you decide to describe Africa as…sandy?”

“It is sandy,” says Bohm. “It gets everywhere, it’s very annoying. In my boots, in my gun, in my food.”

“Goodness, life really is just beating you down, isn’t it?” she says. “What next? Someone will ruin your hair?”

“Is that a threat, Miss Baumann?”

Beatrice scoffs. “I couldn’t reach your hair if I was balancing on someone’s shoulders.”

A group of aging, bony women pass them by. They smell toxically of perfume, and are wearing more jewellery than Beatrice has ever owned. Some sneer as they walk, others giggle and whisper to one another in a confident way that shows they do not care whether the victims of their gossip hear or not.

“Still trying to sleep with him…”

“…look how low-cut her dress it…”

“…desperate little thing, it’s pathetic…”

Gone are the days where Beatrice would wish to melt into the ground and hide away. Gone are also the days where she would round on the women and scream them back to hell. She manages to hold her ground, and stares one of them women dead in the eyes as they slink by. The unfortunate crone blinks twice, turns red, and looks away.

“You’re not worried that they’ll start the rumours again?” Bohm says just loudly enough for only her to hear.

“The rumours never stopped,” said Beatrice. “Didn’t the soldiers in Africa whisper?”

“Not to my face,” says Bohm. “Besides, unlike you, I have actual power to do something about gossipers.”

The volume of chatter amongst the guests begins to rise, and Beatrice struggles to speak over it.

“Then why don’t you do something?” she asks. “It has to annoy you as much as it annoys me, surely—”

She trails away as she realises what the chatter is about. Katrin, who clearly was not expecting such a full reception, walks down the staircase with a shaking hand against the bannister. Her face is bright red as every eye is turned to her. She does not look the sixty years that they are celebrating. She seems barely forty.

Beatrice glances at Bohm, whose smile is so warm, so youthful, that it takes away from the rings around his eyes, and the wince in his movements. He looks as young as his wife does.

“Alright, you can stop swooning now,” Beatrice whispers. “You’re already married to her.”

“Oh just let me, would you?”

It is as if he in a trance. His pained twitching only moments before evaporates as he glides through the crowd and wordlessly meets Katrin at the base of the stairs. He takes one of her hands in both of his, kisses it, and offers her his arm. She takes it, and like a fairy tale, they disappear into the crowd.

Beatrice exhales slowly. He didn’t say a word about their argument. Nothing in his behaviour suggested the thought of it. He was as distant and irritated as ever. And now he will spend the rest of his night swooning over his beautiful wife. Beatrice has to admit, as tricky and two-faced as he can be, he is an adoringly sweet husband.

And with the stress of the night out of her life, Beatrice searches for Rosalind.

The ballroom is cavernous. As she moves around it, she appreciates for the first time just how gorgeous and elegant every inch of it is. Every panel in the wall is gilded with thin swirls of gold and silver, and every surface gleams under the crystalline light of the chandelier. The tiles, a deep bronze, are so spotless and smooth that Beatrice can pick out every click of her heels through the din. There are small tables along the fall walls laden with food and alcohol, accompanied by the dozen or so waiters that drift through the crowd. Beatrice’s eyes skate over it, making a metal note of what to collect when she returns for a meal. Slabs of roast chicken slathered with stock and herbs, beef rouladen with potato dumplings and red cabbage, pork drops dripping with gravy. Trays of roast carrot, broccoli, mushrooms, and squash. Bowls of soup, already ladled out for the laziest of guests. There is a separate table, just for desserts. Plates of chunky, chocolate chip cookies. Biscuits with the most intricate icing. Apple crumble and ice-cream; it makes Beatrice’s mouth water. There is so much.

Beatrice has finished her first glass of wine and is halfway through her second when she finds Rosalind. She is sitting at one of the small dining tables scattered beside the windows that look onto the darkened gardens. A man is sitting beside her, and for a split second, Beatrice thinks it is Bohm.

But then she looks closer. He is uninjured, and instead of a uniform, he wears a black tuxedo and bow tie to match. The curve of his cheekbones are not so high, and the lines on his face are not as deep. He is younger, but not by very much. No more than ten years.

“Oh, there you are,” says Rosalind brightly. “I’ve been wondering where you are. This is my uncle Peter, by the way.”

“The famous Miss Baumann, I assume.” Peter stands to shake her hand. Even his voice is similar; cold, low, and smooth. They have the same authoritarian tone, the same well-read pattern of speech. The way they hold themselves is identical. Shoulders back, chin high, arms loose and hands held behind their backs. Relaxed dominance. Languid power.

“Famous is a bit of a stretch, I’d say,” says Beatrice.

It is instant, and visible in all of their eyes, as their minds dart to the slanderous newspaper articles only months prior. Peter shifts; he knows he has said the wrong thing.

“Well, past events notwithstanding,” he says awkwardly. “I only meant that Rosalind speaks very highly of you.”

“I know what you meant,” Beatrice smiles. “I’m only teasing.”

Peter’s face breaks into a relaxed grin. His smile does not unease her quite as much as his brother’s; something about it is softer. As if he does it more than once every decade.

“Oh, did Eugen come?” asks Rosalind. “You never said if he was free.”

“Yes, he’s here,” Beatrice sighs. “Somewhere.”

“Talking?”

“He’s a social creature,” says Beatrice. “He disappeared into the crowd almost as soon as we arrived, the bastard. He’s my uncle,” she adds quickly upon seeing Peter’s quietly confused expression. “Eugen Konrad.”

“The businessman?” he asks. “Lucky you; he’s almost as rich as Alexander and Katrin.”

“Oh, no he is not,” Beatrice laughs. “This…this is beyond wealthy. This is…actually, this is bordering on ridiculous.”

“Well, Alexander always was our father’s favourite,” says Peter. “He was bound to get the majority of the inheritance. It was split three ways, and he still managed to soar above the rest of us.”

“Three ways?” says Beatrice. “There’s another one of you?”

“Well…technically,” says Peter. “Our stepbrother, Stefan, he got the smallest lot when father passed away. But he’s a tricky man, a cheat if you will, and father knew that as well as anyone.”

“Is he here?” asks Beatrice. She is intrigued by this mysterious, lying member of the Bohm family.

“Oh, god no,” Peter chuckles. “No, no. Alexander has more sense than that. He’d make off with the silverware, but get caught before reaching the front door.”

“He tried stealing Mutti’s wedding ring once,” says Rosalind. “He wanted to sell it to pay for new shoes or something foolish like that. To be fair to him, it was during the recession, so no one had a great deal of money.”

“Except you?” says Beatrice, smiling ever so slightly.

“Well, yes.” Rosalind says. “Except us.”

Beatrice needs a moment to think, and momentarily departs from the conversation by retrieving a new glass of wine. It is not Rosalind and Peter’s tales of Stefan Bohm that interest her, nor is it some offhand comment that has suddenly unlatched a gate leading to a garden full of secrets. Really, it is nothing at all. Yet it is everything.

“He wanted to sell it to pay for new shoes or something foolish like that.”

“To be fair to him, it was during the recession, so no one had a great deal of money.”

That scenario is all too familiar to Beatrice. Change the recession to the Great Depression, and suddenly it is her trying to steal valuables for money. Her days at boarding school in England were full of elaborate schemes, concocted between her and the other girls from the countryside, to pinch and pocket from the snobby, upper-classers. More than once, she had stood guard in the halls as Dorothy McKinnon and Isobel Thompson had rifled through the many, many trunks of the rich and bossy Georgina Finnegan.. Beatrice has not met Stefan Bohm, and she does not particularly want to, but she cannot be so sure that Rosalind and Peter’s interpretation of him is all that accurate. As much as they claim to understand, the rich rarely know what it is like to live salary to salary, scraping what little you have to purchase the bare minimum to feed your children, keep a roof over their heads, clothe them.

Guests come and go. Peter departs to find Bohm and Katrin. Rosalind and Beatrice drift until they find Dietrich on the edge of the dancefloor, watching a pair out in the middle.

“Johannes is dancing with my sister,” he says. “They’re in-laws; is that even legal?”

“So long as they haven’t…you know…” Beatrice trails off into quiet laughter as Rosalind pushes her arm lightly.

“It’s fine,” says Rosalind. “I love him to death, but Hans is a fickle boy. No offence to your sister Dietrich, but there’s no chance of the two of them ever dating, let alone…doing anything else.”

“I’ll make sure to tell her,” Dietrich says, and downs his glass. “Dance, Rosa?”

He takes her hand and leads her into the swaying crowd of varyingly inebriated guests. Beatrice tries to follow them with her eyes, until a second pair breaks contact between them.

Bohm and Katrin. They stare at one another dreamily, like the war they fight through is worlds away. They move so smoothly, with such grace, that now Beatrice cannot deny that Katrin was once a ballerina. She cannot hear them, but she knows that they both are singing along to the slow, lilting tune that fills the room.

“Bohm? Singing?” Beatrice thinks. “Surely not.”

But true enough, his mouth moves in time with the song, as do his movements. Every word is perfect. Never a beat out of time. They dance with such ease; Beatrice has no choice but to think that they have done this before.

Bohm spins Katrin out and pulls her back, and her musical laugh echoes through the gorgeous room. Beatrice does not realise that she is smiling faintly until someone sidles up next to her.

“He has that effect, doesn’t he?” says Peter. “He’s a very private person, but he never could resist showing off quietly.”

“What do you mean ‘he has that effect’?” says Beatrice. “He’s married to her, I would’ve though he’s allowed to flirt a little.”

“I wasn’t talking about Katrin,” says Peter. “I was talking about you. You’re blushing.”

Beatrice grimaces, and lightly touches at her cheek. “Oh. That’s…involuntary.”

Peter chuckles. “I’m only teasing you, Magdalen. Not to worry.”

Beatrice rolls her eyes with a smile, and goes back to watching the dancers. She cannot help but let her gaze glide back to the elder couple again and again. Not because of their appearance, and not because of Bohm, but because how inexplicably happy the two of them look. It is such a rare thing for two people to fall in love and stay that way for as long as they have.

The song ends, and a new one takes its place. It is faster, louder. Practically a tango, or something just as difficult. And to Beatrice’s surprise, Bohm and Katrin do not leave or attempt a slower dance. They are as close together and poised as any of the younger dancers around them.

“I know Katrin used to be a ballerina,” says Beatrice. “But how is Alexander so good at dancing? Namely, this very tango-esque dance.”

“We lived in Rio de Janeiro for a few years,” says Peter. “Just before Alexander went away to university. Lots of tango dancing over there.”

“Of course,” Beatrice sighs.

Beatrice tries to imagine young Bohm and Peter living in sweltering, energetic Brazil. Naturally, with the money running in their family, they would have lived in pure style and comfort, without a care in the world. Music, dancing, the beach, how perfect it must have been. She pictures them now, on a cobblestone street surrounded by dozens of brightly painted stucco buildings, children again, and as young and happy as they could ever be.

“We like to joke that’s how Alexander won Katrin over,” says Peter.

“Well…if he were twenty years old again, I suppose I could see the appeal,” says Beatrice. “Oh Lord, I’m not drunk enough for this…”

Across the room, a pair of dark eyes meets her own.

Konrad.

He is watching her as she observes the dancing couple, and he does not share in her joy. His expression is one of supressed contempt. His nose is screwed up, and his gaze darts between Beatrice, Bohm, and Katrin. Beatrice’s smile falls. She is brought back to reality.

She should not be smiling. Who does she feel joy for? Bohm and Katrin, who are Nazis, and complacent in their beliefs? Why? Sweet as they may be, they are the enemy, the threat, the danger, and no amount of romanticism and humanity should ever sway Beatrice from thinking that. What a fool she is for allowing herself to fall into that trap. And how bitter Konrad must feel now, to see one of his only true allies smiling at the sight of Nazis dancing. Konrad, a Jew, who has practically been in hiding half of his life. Beatrice feels sick to her stomach.

She pushes through the crowd until she bursts outside. The garden is dark, and the white roses that curl along the tall, stone walls glow in the inkiness. A small group stands on the other side, a ring of smoke around them all, and two young children sit in the boughs of a wide tree, dirt staining their precious clothes. No doubt they have plenty more at home.

It is not entirely private, but it is quiet, and it is cold. Cold enough to snap Beatrice out of the embarrassed, blurry stupor that she has worked herself into. She seats herself at a small table and lights a cigarette. She has begun smoking more, and it is starting to take effect. Ragged coughing, being short of breath, the horrid taste of nicotine, she tires of it all. But going too long without a cigarette feels just as bad. She huffs; what her mother would think of her.

Beatrice looks at the children climbing through the trees. One is a boy, the other a girl. They are young, no older than ten. They look so blissfully unaware of the world outside of luxurious food, beautiful clothes, and a warm home. Hot meals every day, home cooked by the family chef, everything washed and cleaned for them. Meanwhile, Beatrice’s mother will have given birth to her fifth child, and without her husband and eldest children to help, she would be lucky to sleep any more than three hours. Heather and Edward will have been evacuated from their schools in London. Joan will have to learn to tie her shoelaces and make her own food. There are no second-helpings; there is barely enough to go around in the first place. Beatrice wonders how it is possible that so much of the world’s worth can go to so few, while everyone has to manoeuvre and beg and try to make that tiny ration of butter last the week.

It is beautiful out here. And she hates it.

Her head has cleared. The cold front has finally set in, and she realises the dozens of goose bumps that prickle and rise along her arms. She stubs out her cigarette and hastily retreats inside, where it is warm and golden. She is met with a scene that she has never imagined in her wildest dreams.

The ballroom seems to have emptied as guests begin to filter towards the dining room for the evening meal. But those that remain stand in a circle around two imposingly tall, rake-thin figures. Konrad and Bohm. Konrad’s face is bright red, and his hands are clenched into tight fists. His mouth opens and closes furiously, and it takes Beatrice a moment to realise through the music that he is shouting at the top of his lungs. Bohm is a statue, but not a picture of fear. He glowers at Konrad in lazy contempt, though Beatrice can see his own fingers beginning to curl. She pushes through the guests until she is on the edge of the circle. Johannes stands watching on the other side, but he is paralysed. Where is Katrin?

“You’re fucking deluded!” Konrad spits. “Do you honestly think that just because you’re the richest one here, you can say whatever the fuck you want?”

Bohm does not reply. He is supressing his anger, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. But Beatrice does not think Konrad can wait that long. He is taking a step back; his chest is heaving.

“You’re disgusting,” he says. “And a fucking coward.”

“Bold words from an unenlisted man,” Bohm says calmly. Konrad rears his hand—

Beatrice wedges herself between them before either man can move. She holds out her arms, fingertips barely brushing their chests. She pants from the sudden movement, and the fear that Konrad was about to strike a man who could have them both killed within minutes.

She looks at Konrad, who does not look at her. His teeth are bared, and his eyes are slits that throw fire in Bohm’s direction. The staring world around him does not matter. All that matters to him is the honour of the woman who has her hand against his chest, and the old man who belittles her.

And Bohm is the polar opposite. Still, cold, and somehow distant from it all, as if he does not quite realise what was about to happen. His iron eyes flick to Beatrice, the young girl who doesn’t rise above his shoulders even when she is in heels, who has just prevented his nose from being broken a second time. Is there gratefulness in those eyes? Or are they just empty?

Beatrice forces a slow breath, quiet and soft. She pulls her hand back from Bohm’s chest and turns to face Konrad. She pushes him away gently. For all of his anger, he looks as if he would tip at the slightest provocation.

“Out the front door,” she says, voice level. “Turn around, there you go. I can drive home.”

A deep voice mutters something behind her. “If you can see over the steering wheel…”

Konrad wrenches himself out of Beatrice’s grip and rams his fist into Bohm’s face.

The crowd screams and lurches backwards. Beatrice’s ears ring, and the world swoops under her feet. She teeters, then grabs Konrad’s arm. Whether it is to steady herself or him, she does not know. But his job is done, and he goes still.

Johannes kneels beside Bohm, who has collapsed onto the ground. For a moment, it seems that he is not conscious. Blood rolls across his face, dripping from his already broken nose that has now certainly been damaged again. He groans faintly, and manages to push himself onto his elbows. His arms shake, and he leans against Johannes for balance. Somewhere from the depths of the crowd, Peter emerges. Together, he and Johannes pull the swaying general to his feet and lead him away. The front of his uniform is red. His nose has twisted even further to one side, and his eyes roll back in his head as if he is about to faint.

Beatrice cannot think as he grabs Konrad’s collar and tugs him towards the front door. She ignores his choking splutters and shoves him into the passenger seat of the car. She rolls down the window and slams the door shut.

“You’d best be in this car when I get back,” she mutters. “If you’re so much as leaning against the outside for a cigarette, I will break your nose.”

Somehow, she does not think he will move. His hands, smeared with Bohm’s blood, hold his bowed head. He is silent.

Beatrice turns to see Rosalind in the doorway, clutching the handle as if it is a life raft. Beatrice falters for a half-step before summoning the courage to walk forwards.

“Is he alright?” she asks.

“Mutti’s fixing him up,” says Rosalind. “You want to speak to him, don’t you?”

“Well, I’m not letting Eugen do it himself,” says Beatrice. “Rosalind, you have no clue how livid I am at my uncle; I am beyond disgusted.”

Rosalind laughs humourlessly. “You’re not the only one. Come on.”

They pass by the formal dining room as Rosalind leads Beatrice through the house. Through the tall doors, Beatrice can see every guest seated and eagerly tucking into their entrees. Though she is not the cause of Katrin’s removal from her own birthday celebrations, Beatrice cannot help the shuddering guilt that racks her brain, and her stomach. Konrad will never hear the end of this.

Bohm is in a private sitting room upstairs, where Katrin stands over him, gently cleaning the dried blood from his face. His jacket, which was reddened in the fight, has been flung over the back of the chair. The crisp white shirt beneath is stained too, though not as much. He seems less dazed now, but still not altogether present. He glances up as Rosalind and Beatrice enter. He does not say anything to her, but whispers something to Katrin.

“Are you sure?” she says. Bohm nods, and whispers something again.

Katrin tuts. “Well, just don’t berate her. It’s not her fault.”

Beatrice’s stomach sinks further and further as Katrin stands up and walks towards them. She tries to whisper an apology as Katrin passes, but she is silenced with a forgiving smile.

She guides Rosalind from the room, and shuts the door behind her. The silence is damning. Beatrice is afraid to move. Tenderly, she walks across the room and hovers by an empty chair.

Bohm gestures with his hand. “Sit.”

They are silent as Bohm attempts to wipe away the last of the blood. Without a mirror, and without Katrin to help, it is still smeared across his jaw. He huffs and dumps the red, damp rag onto the coffee table.

“I was due for a doctor’s visit this week anyway,” he says. “But I don’t need a professional to tell me that my nose is broken. Again.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Twice in one month, Miss Baumann,” says Bohm. “Doctors are not cheap.”

Beatrice fights to stop the laugh that rises in her throat. “Because medical bills are just so damaging on your income.”

“It adds up, and it’s an inconvenience,” Bohm says. “And two breaks, so close together and at my age, is more serious than it might be for someone so young as yourself. If I have to have surgery…”

He groans, and lets his head drape over the back of the couch. Beatrice sees more streaks of crimson running down his throat.

“Are you going to arrest him?” Beatrice asks.

The possibility of such a thing is very realistic. Beatrice knows that. Bohm knows that. And surely Konrad knows that. It is just so ironic that they have lasted nearly a year now, and the reason that they are finally arrested is because the more experienced of the pair decided to unnecessarily assault a general.

Bohm looks back at her. “Fetch me a new cloth, would you? This one’s ruined.”

It isn’t an answer, but Beatrice does not dare aggravate him for fear of a harsher punishment. She delicately picks up the cloth by its cleanest corner and drops it into the bin of the adjoining bathroom. She digs through the cupboards, finds a washcloth, and dampens it. Upon reconsideration, she wrings it out. She does not want to take any chances at provoking Bohm. Beatrice offers the new cloth to him.

He seizes her wrist and pulls her forwards.


	16. The Complete Works of Emma Lazarus

Beatrice’s knees hit the ground, and she careens forward. Bohm’s gaunt fingertips grasp her jaw and sharply tugs her face so close that she can see the intricate detailing of blue and purple across his bruised and battered face. Beatrice’s back is arched at such an angle, and her arm is being pulled so tight, that it is all she can do not to howl in pain. She realises, with a shiver across her skin, that her hand has come to rest on his knee. Leaving it there disgusts her, but moving it would cause her to topple forward into his lap.

“It does not take a fool to realise that you’ve not kept to your side of the deal,” Bohm mutters. “You think I’m trying to go back on my promise? If my daughter were not so close to you, and if you were not my grandson’s godmother, you would be in handcuffs at this very moment. Not to mention my personal reluctance to arrest you.”

He is too close; Beatrice shuts her eyes. She tries not to move. Tries not to breathe. Tries not to think.

“Do you think I don’t know what you’ve done?” says Bohm. “Von Lehning’s assassination? The bomb in the propaganda ministry? And do you really think that Goebbels hadn’t noticed that someone had gone through his office?”

Beatrice tries to turn her chin away, but Bohm brings it back easily. A soft whimper escapes her.

“Let go of me,” she whispers.

“Or what?” Bohm snarls; a bemused question. How can she dare to bargain with him in such a compromising position?

“I’ll scream.”

“I’ll break your arm,” says Bohm, and as if to prove it, turns her arm so delicately to the side. Beatrice’s shoulder tenses, and he stops.

“I’ll give up the lie,” he drawls. “End our deal, and have both you and Konrad detained before midnight. My family will forgive me for it, and I can push aside my personal conflicts, so do it. Scream.”

There is no way that Beatrice comes out of this as the winner. She leaves either in handcuffs, or in a more delicate and complicated position than before.

“You want to know if I am going to arrest Konrad?” he whispers. “I am not. I cannot take such forceful measures for an action so insignificant. I would appear weak, and desperate for power.”

“Alexander, my chin—”

Bohm digs his fingers in, pinching just above Beatrice’s lower jaw. She hisses in pain.

“Your pretty face should be the least of your concerns,” he says. His voice is so low; it is practically a purr. He leans back a fraction of a millimetre. His eyes sweep over the girl at his feet, clutching desperately at his hands to pull him away.

“You are walking on painfully thin ice, my darling,” he says. “One more mistake, one more slip-up, and everything comes crashing down. Everything.”

His voice is altered in his anger. The sound comes from the back of his throat; it is too harsh. It does not sound like his slow, cautious tone. Then he smiles, slow-drawn and crawling, and Beatrice fights another whimper.

“If only the newspapers could see you now,” he whispers.

He leans forward, tantalizingly deliberate, as if to kiss her, and stops just in time. The end of his nose is against her cheek; his eyelashes brush her glasses. That is when Beatrice smells the alcohol on his breath, blending with the metallic air of blood. Bohm is old. Thin. Overworked. He has taken a blow to the head, and he does not drink often. When he is sober he is unpredictable. But now, drunk and injured, he is incalculable.

Bohm edges forward, pushing Beatrice with him. They stand at a painstakingly slow pace, and all the while, the grip on Beatrice’s wrist and face is not relinquished. They move towards the door, one step at a time, like some nightmarishly disfigured dance. Left foot back, stop. Right foot back, stop. Again and again, deep, swooping steps, until Beatrice hits the door. Bohm lets go of her chin, and his hand snakes around the handle.

“No more tricks, Miss Baumann,” he says. “I’m running out of leniency.”

The space between them is charged with the same dangerous electricity as the night of the Christmas party. Tense and hesitating, but eager to move all the same.

Bohm opens the door, and Beatrice slides through the gap as his grip on her wrist loosens. It tightens again and whirls her around as Bohm kisses her.

Static. The empty waves of a broken radio, and the dullness in ones skin after not moving for hours on end. That is what Beatrice feels. Blood pounds in her head. He is too close; he is practically on top of her. Enveloping her.

One second feels like ten.

Two seconds feels like an hour.

Three seconds feels like a day.

Four seconds, and she bites him.

Hard.

Blood is richer when it is pure liquid. It fills her mouth, and causes Bohm to gasp and reel back. His nails are like claws digging into her.

“You bit me.”

“You kissed me!” says Beatrice. “You…actually kissed me.”

“Observation just comes naturally to you, doesn’t it?” he says.

“You said that there was no love,” she says. “Oh God, I think I’m going to be sick…”

Bohm tugs her back. Beatrice groans as her shoulder rams into the door, but the general takes no notice. Never in all of her life has she felt so small, so insignificant, so much at the mercy of another. She is strong, but he is stronger. She is smart, but he is smarter. Tougher. Haunting.

“Alexander, let go of me,” she says warningly, though her voice wavers at the end. “You’re drunk; you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Bohm studies the small woman in his arms. She is trying so hard to stay composed, but he can feel her shaking. Trying to look him in the eye, but failing every time. Trying to control her voice, only to have it crack and waver.

“You think I’m going to hurt you,” he says quietly. Thoughtfully.

“You already have.”

Something in his eyes changes, like a switch flicking. The smoke clears and realisation overcomes him. He has hurt her. Maybe he only held her jaw instead of beating her. Maybe he did not hold her down and torture her. Maybe he has not arrested those that she loves, but look at what else he has done to her. Threats. Coercion. Deals. And pulling emotional strings as if she is no more than a little blonde puppet who never wished to be on stage. Bohm does not need to hit Beatrice. This is how he hurts her.

“Yes,” he breathes. “I have, haven’t I?”

He pushes her away, like a child pushing their toy onto a lake, gentle and with care. She stumbles, but does not fall. She is pale and trembling.

“Keep this conversation in mind, Miss Baumann,” says Bohm. “For your own good.”

Beatrice knows that if she speaks, she will cry. She can feel it, the tightness in her throat and the twitching in her eyes. The most courage she can muster is only enough to allow her to swivel on her heel and stride away. And even that walk is laced with fear. She reaches the ground floor and just makes it past the dining room, where a raucous chorus of happy birthday sounds, before tears slide down her cheeks. She brushes past the concerned looking maid and outside onto the driveway. Konrad is exactly where she left him. She does not say a word as she opens the door to the driver’s side and starts the car.

“Did I break his nose?” asks Konrad. “I hope—are you alright kleyntshik?”

Beatrice ignores him. She pulls the car out of the driveway and turns onto the road that runs parallel to the house. She feels his hand on her shoulder and flinches.

“Beatrice, what happened?” he asks. “Can you tell me? Please?”

The car turns onto Händelallee . Beatrice’s hands quiver on the steering wheel. She feels Konrad’s hand touch her shoulder again, and this time she pulls away. But it is too late, and the touch breaks her down. She lets out a shuddering sob and hangs her head. Konrad grabs the steering wheel with one hand.

“Beatrice, we’re going to pull the car over, alright?” he says quietly. “Nice and gently, there you go.”

The car comes to a smooth halt on the side of the road, and Konrad shuts the engine off. Beatrice lets her head rest against the wheel as her shoulders shake and heave. Her mascara leaves ugly streaks and her hair frizzes and knots as she grabs it. Konrad firmly attempts to pull her hands away by grabbing her wrists. Beatrice screams and twists away, holding her hands against her chest.

“It’s not him,” she thinks. “It isn’t him.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice hoarse. “I just…I thought…”

Her voice trails away to nothing. Not even crying. She tries cleaning her glasses, but her fingers are clumsy. Konrad carefully takes them and wipes them on the corner of his jacket. He never takes his eyes off of her.

“What did Bohm say to you?”

Beatrice raises a shuddering hand to her lips and touches at them. The gloss there is smeared.

“Can you pass me my purse?” she says.

Konrad hands it over, and she pulls out her lipstick. Her hands shudder as if the ground underneath her is shaking and splitting apart at the seams. She reapplies her make-up in the mirror. Her fingers slip, and a messy line is drawn under her bottom lip. Beatrice curses, and the lipstick clatters against the dashboard.

“Woah, just relax,” says Konrad. “Take a deep breath…”

He awkwardly wraps an arm around her as she dissolves into tears. She does not flinch this time, but slumps against him.

Bohm lied to her. He said that he didn’t love her, but who kisses someone if there is no attraction between them? She shouldn’t have gone to speak with him, stupid, stupid, stupid…

They sit there, with Konrad’s arms around Beatrice, until she can hardly breathe. She inhales shakily and wipes at her eyes. Her fingers come away black, stained with mascara. Another wavering sob rises. She lays her head against Konrad’s shoulder, staring at the stars. Those lucky stars that do not go to war, do not know emotional turmoil, and do not have to hide themselves away from those that might hurt them. How peaceful it would be to become a star. A great mass of fire that no one would dare to anger. What a world that must be.

“He kissed me,” Beatrice whispers.

There is a moment where she thinks Konrad has mercifully not heard her, and all she has done is said the words aloud. But he sits up, forcing Beatrice to sit up straight as her headrest moves away. She turns away; she cannot look at him. Her cheeks go red.

“What?”

“Don’t make me say it again,” she says.

“You…do you mean Bohm?” says Konrad.

Though Beatrice is not looking at him, she can imagine his face. Head tilted down and eyebrows together, knuckles white, lips parted.

“He wanted to speak to me in private,” says Beatrice. “Convinced Katrin and Rosalind to leave. I asked whether his nose had been broken, and he told me it had. He asked me to go get a new cloth so he could clean the blood, so I did. I went to give it to him, and he grabbed my wrist…”

Now that she has started, she cannot stops. The floodgates open. Word after word, confession after confession. Beatrice takes a shuddering breath, and ploughs on.

“I was at his feet, and his face was so close to mine,” she says. “He told me that if I keep up with the operations, he’ll have me arrested, regardless of what Rosa and Katrin think. Then we stood up, and he was still holding onto me, and he pushed me against the door. I was nearly gone; he only had a hold on my wrist. Just as I was about to leave, he pulled me back, and…”

She grabs her seatbelt. There are indents in her palms from where her nails dug in, almost deep enough to draw blood. Her feet tap, her knee bounces, and she cannot bear to sit still. If she stops moving, she will start crying again.

“I can’t even tell anyone,” she says. “I’d be a pariah for accusing him; everyone loves him. And he’d have both of us killed if he found out. And I can’t ignore him either, because then Rosa will get suspicious, and if Rosa stops liking me, then everything goes to pieces, but I don’t think I can go near him again Eugen, I don’t know what to do—”

“Step one is slow down,” says Konrad. “Alright? Breathe. Step two, you’ve already done. Rationalise. You know that this is going to be difficult to solve, maybe impossible, but that’s where step three comes in. Control.”

Beatrice scoffs weakly. “Control?”

“He does not have complete authority over you,” he says. “Like you said, you have protection from Rosalind and Wilhelm. Katrin and Dietrich adore you, and even Johannes seems to like you. I know Bohm, and no matter what he says, in everything he does, his family comes first. He will not rat you out.”

“But what if he does—”

“He won’t,” says Konrad. “I swear to you on your idiot brother’s life.”

The tears begin to fade away, and Beatrice slowly regains control of her breathing. Both her words and Konrad’s are more coherent to her, and the world that was spinning and fractured minutes ago is now piecing together. Shard by shard. Fear by fear. She is focussing.

“And since I have sworn to you on your idiot brother’s life,” says Konrad. “You can trust that no matter what you do to avoid him, there will be no repercussions. You can ignore him when he talks to you. You can refuse to go anywhere with him. You do not have to be alone with him. All you have to do is keep up your relationship with Rosalind. And that girl is clingier than glue, so there’s nothing to worry about there.”

Beatrice sniffles and laughs. She forgets that, despite how cold and grumpy Konrad can be, he changes when the need arises.

“And Beatrice?” He takes her hands, rubbing small circles across the back of her slender hand with his thumbs. “Do not believe, not for one moment, that this was your fault. It does not matter if you’re the enemy It does not matter if you’re on the same side. It does not matter who you are and where you come from. It was not your fault.”

He kisses her forehead, his crooked smile playing out. “Alright?”

Beatrice sniffles again. “I’m alright.”

“I’m not letting you drive home now, kleyntshik,” he says. “I still don’t think you’re in the right headset.”

“But your car—”

“We can find it in the morning,” he says. “We’re only a few minutes away. Come on.”

It is summer, and it isn’t even nine o’clock yet, but the air still has an undeniable chill to it. Beatrice shivers and wraps her arms around herself. Konrad, who still carries his travel sized bottle of vodka, offers her the last of it. It erases the stinging sensation in her mouth, if only for a minute or two.

Berlin is a different place when the sun goes down. Even in this suburb that Beatrice has called home for almost a year now, so rich and distanced from the stereotype of a war-plagued city, the gorgeous buildings are marred in the darkness. Each of them are perfect down to the millimetre. The few that have been damaged in the bombing have been repaired swiftly and efficiently, as if the bombs had never fallen in the first place. Their tall, dark, ancient frames throw impossibly large shadows across the road and cover all that walk beneath. Black-out regimens are becoming more stringent, but not enforced. The light that does escape is dull orange and wavering, like the ballroom Beatrice and Konrad have just fled from. Senses Beatrice cannot place linger at every step. Is that the ghost of music, or a hint of roast duck? Sparking stars, or smooth iron? Somehow, in the deepness of the dark silence, it is so much harder to tell.

They find their way home in complete darkness. Claudette, who sleeps early, must already be in bed, and Albert is no doubt upstairs fiddling with whatever broken device he has located. Beatrice has not had very much to drink at all, but the sheer weight of the night is enough to make her feel that way. It slams into her like a brick wall, and every inch of her body groans in pain. She curls up in her blankets, and feels nothing but humidity. She throws open a window, letting in the sharp scent of rain, car smoke, and damp leaves. It takes her hours to fall asleep, and when she does, her dreams are vivid. Eerie. Feverish. They are wrought with thin, haggard faces. Mossy walls dripping with rancid water. Gunfire as loud as thunder in her ears. And the feeling of being unbelievably cold.

Early in the dawn, as pale orange light spills across the darkened walls, Beatrice is half-awakened by the sound of her door creaking open. She turns her head slowly, expecting it to be Shoshana, delighted at having found a warm bed to clamber into. Instead, it is Claudette.

“Oh.” Beatrice rolls onto her stomach. “I thought you were the cat. Are you alright?”

“I was going to ask the same thing about you,” says Claudette. “You sounded like you were having a nightmare.”

Beatrice goes red. “I think I might’ve been,” she says. “Was I…screaming?”

“You were talking,” says Claudette. “And…sort of shouting, but only in little bursts, you know? Don’t worry, I think the other two are still fast asleep.”

“Oh.”

“Can I sit with you for a little bit?” says Claudette. “I can’t sleep either.”

Beatrice rolls over, patting the blankets beside her. “Make yourself at home.”

Claudette does not slip under the covers, but rather pulls the top blanket over her legs. Her hip bumps against Beatrice’s cheek. She lifts her head, placing it gently on her lap.

“How was the party?” asks Claudette. Beatrice only shakes her head, lips pressed together. She does not want to talk about it.

“Not good then,” says Claudette. “That’s fair I suppose. Do you want to know what I did while you were gone? I’m ecstatic about it.”

“Alright,” says Beatrice. “A little softer though, please Detta. My head hurts.”

Claudette tuts. “I’ll make you some tea later.”

“Thank you,” Beatrice murmurs. “So what was this terribly exciting thing that you did last night?”

“Well, you know how much I like poetry, yes?”

“Almost a little too much.”

“I went digging through Eugen’s library,” says Claudette. “And I found this.”

She withdraws a small greyish-red book from the pocket of her dressing gown. Emblazoned across the front are the words ‘The Poems of Emma Lazarus’

“Oh, I’ve read some of her poems before,” says Beatrice. “She wrote the New Colossus. Not my cup of tea. Pretentious stuff, poetry.”

“Poetry isn’t pretentious,” says Claudette. “Some people are just too oblivious to look at it properly.”

Beatrice narrows her eyes at Claudette. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

Claudette giggles softly. “I’ll show you.”

She flip the book open. Her fingertips skim over the pages, lips moving soundlessly as she searches for the words she wants.

“Here,” she says after a moment. “It’s called ‘Venus of the Louvre. I’m quite certain this book is actually banned here, so don’t go repeating this to anyone.”

“Yes, because I spend great deals of my time discussing poetry with Nazis,” Beatrice smiles.

“Hush.” says Claudette, slapping her arm. “Let me read.”

And so Beatrice falls silent, and for a few minutes, allows Claudette’s lilting, sweet voice dance around her like a lullaby. Her voice is soft, and her accent picks out words that Beatrice would otherwise ignore, or hide words that she might have once been drawn too. And she realises, in those precious few moments, how dull her own voice is.

“‘Down the long hall she glistens like a star,’” Claudette reads. “‘The foam-born mother of Love, transfixed to stone. Yet none the less immortal, breathing on. Time’s brutal hand hath maimed but could not mar. When first the enthralled enchantress from afar. Dazzled eyes, I saw not her alone, serenely poised on her world worshipped throne.’”

Claudette stops, and the pause makes Beatrice frown.

“Is that it?” she asks. “‘Dazzled eyes I saw not her alone.’ Is there someone else with her, or not?”

“You are interested,” says Claudette. “I told you that it’s not pretentious.”

Beatrice scoffs. “I never said I changed my mind. Keep going.”

Claudette smiles at Beatrice’s change of heart. But she ploughs on without a snide comment.

“‘…serenely poised on her world worshipped throne,’” she continues. “‘As when she guided once her dove-drawn car. But at her feet a pale, death-stricken Jew. Her life adorer, sobbed farewell to love. Here Heine wept. Here still he weeps anew. Nor ever shall his shadow life or move. While mourns one ardent heart, one poet-brain. For vanished Hellas and Hebraic pain.’”

There. That feels more complete. Like the final note of the song, satisfying and certain. It is true that Beatrice does not entirely understand what the poem means. But the words, especially being spoken by Claudette, is an artform in itself. Beauty made sound.

“Who is Heine?” asks Beatrice. “You mentioned something about a Heine, didn’t you?”

“Heinrich Heine,” says Claudette. “Another poet.”

“Is his work banned as well?”

“His parents were Jewish,” says Claudette. “So I assume so.”

Beatrice smiles. “Well, thank you for the literacy lesson. I felt like I was in school again. It’s a rather comforting thing. Nostalgic, I suppose.”

“You’re very welcome.” says Claudette. “Now go back to sleep. You look like death incarnate.”

“I’m flattered.”

Beatrice’s head pounds when she wakes up a few hours later. She dashes into the bathroom as hot vomit rises in her throat. She coughs and retches, feeling what little she ate the night before exiting her body. She shakes all over. Downstairs she goes, hellbent on brewing the strongest mug of tea humanly possible. Instead of a quiet kitchen though, she finds the others crowded around the radio.

“What…what’s going on?” she yawns.

“Shush,” says Konrad. He turns the dial of the radio higher. Beatrice moves closer, dread growing in the pit of her stomach. It is the same dreaded feeling one might get before giving a speech, or talking to a large group of people all at once. A crackling, familiar voice wavers through the static.

“Goebbels,” she mutters. “What’s he on about now?”

“Shut up!” hisses Albert. “And translate for us!”

Beatrice strains to understand Goebbels through the grainy waves of noise. She does her best, but with each word she repeats, that feeling of dread grows and grows, choking her voice.

“At this moment,” begins Goebbels. “A march is taking place that, for its extent, compares with the greatest the world has ever seen. I have decided today to place the fate and future of the Reich and our people in the hands of our soldiers. May God aid us, especially in this fight!”

The words scorch the inside of her mouth, though it is not until Beatrice lays eyes on the newspaper on the dining table that she truly understands what she has just translated.

GERMAN SOLDIERS SUCESSFULLY INVADE SOVIET UNION

The mood of Berlin shifts. Every time she walks the streets, Beatrice notices more and more soldiers lining the roads. Luxuries are reduced and available only to the richest citizens. Even with her and Konrad’s salaries combined, they can barely afford to keep up the standard of living that they have become accustomed to. Beatrice runs out of lip-stick. Konrad has no hair gel. They are not devastating challenges; Beatrice has gone without far more important things in life. But the change is enough to put the businessman in one of his usual moods. It gets harder and harder to find sugar or meat. Meals become simpler; coffee is nowhere to be found. Albert and Claudette begin drinking tea. Konrad bluntly refuses, and opts for alcohol instead. Days at the office begin to stretch until eight, nine, even ten o’clock on the worst of days. Beatrice sees little of Rosalind and Dietrich outside of work, and even less of Konrad who is often wrapped up in business meetings. His latest shipments of suits from Italy are bombed by an Allied raid. Then twenty bolts of cashmere from France, and the singularly most expensive bolt of vicuña from French Guiana. He does not speak until two days after.

In the wake of the invasion of Russia, it seems that every other night Soviet planes are humming over the city. Propaganda is vicious. Russians, Poles, Slavs, anyone east of Germany is condemned to inferiority. The secretaries curse them and their pilots. Pigs, dogs, communists, they spit. Their make-up is smeared. There are chips in their nails. There is hated in their eyes.

The German troops reach the first major Russian cities in August. The army becomes desperate, and forces Bohm out of recovery and into Poland. Africa does not matter so much now, not when there is a new country to conquer. He lifts his troops from Tobruk and drops them into Leningrad. He pushes his tanks as if they are nothing more than children’s toys, cuts off railway tracks, starves out Russian civilians. A pincher movement cuts off the Krasnoye district altogether. Almost ten thousand people are killed. Bohm writes to Katrin almost every day, sometimes twice, assuring her that he is healthy, he is safe, he is doing his job well.

Johannes turns nineteen, and his career with the Luftwaffe skyrockets. He follows in his father’s footsteps, and sends planes speeding across the Russian skies. He writes home to his mother, telling her of how he dropped bombs right on top of the Peterhof Palace. Katrin smiles when she relays their tales to Rosalind and Beatrice. But her hands shake, and her eyes water.

Dietrich cannot avoid enlistment forever. He has escaped it so far, but the pressures of a surging, growing conflict become too much. He leaves in October, a month after Rosalind gives birth again. A little girl; Sofie Liesl. And like Wilhelm is his father, Sofie is her mother.

Then, just before Christmas, the real fun begins. Japan bombs Pearl Harbour, and America joins the war.

Goebbels is in an unappeasable rage for weeks afterwards. Rations grow stricter, tighter. The bombing raids increase, and Beatrice goes without more than four hours sleep for three days as planes swirl overhead. Germany has conquered almost the entirety of Europe, so why does it feel as if they are losing ground?

An island among the swirling ocean appears on New Year’s Eve. Konrad is in Munich as his wares are slowly destroyed. Albert takes to lingering in the kitchen for long periods of time, and so for the first time in months, Beatrice and Claudette finally feel alone with one another. They sit in Claudette’s room, like always. One draws, and the other plays violin.

“When this war is over,” says Claudette. “We should go on a holiday. A big holiday, for months and months.”

“Where would we go?” asks Beatrice. “I feel as if I’ve already seen my fair share of Europe.”

Claudette laughs pityingly. “Well, we’d go to Paris obviously. It’s gorgeous when it’s not…”

“Overrun by fascists?”

“Yes, overrun by fascists,” says Claudette. “Then Scotland. I’ve seen photographs of the beaches there, and it doesn’t look warm, but I still think I’d like to go.”

There is truth to that. The coastline of Scotland certainly isn’t the tropical travellers ideal destination, but it’s a scene like none other. Those grey slate cliffs dripping with sea moss and grass, soft brown sand that is always damp, and dozens of tiny stone castles on the craggy rocks. The Hebrides was a favourite summer destination in the Wilson household once upon a time.

“We won’t go to the Americas, because they just won’t let me in anywhere,” says Claudette. “But maybe we could go to Australia. They’re not quite as bad as the Americans; I think they only hate the Indigenous Australians, and people that actually live there. Besides, they might be nicer to me if I’m with you.”

“Well, you’d hope they’d be nice to everyone,” says Beatrice. “But I’m sure there wouldn’t be any major problems. Why Australia?”

“It’s beautiful there,” says Claudette. “All of the landmarks, the cities. You could go shopping Sydney or Melbourne for hours on end. The beaches are perfect. And I’ve always wanted to try fairy bread.”

Beatrice snorts. “Fairy bread?”

“You haven’t heard of fairy bread?”

“Clearly not.”

Claudette gasps and claps her hands to either side of her head. “Oh, Bee, it looks wonderful, so stupidly wonderful. White bread, a thin layer of butter, and sprinkles.”

Beatrice narrows her eyes at Claudette. “Bread and sprinkles?”

“Bread and sprinkles.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard,” says Beatrice. “And I agree that we should go to Australia to try this ludicrous dish.

The clock chimes midnight. The year is finally over, and a new one has begun.


	17. The Kalendar Prince

With two young children, and a third on the way, Rosalind quits her job altogether. Beatrice walks alone to the train station every day. In the old days, it used to be a peaceful journey. But now, as the work day grows longer and air raids become more frequent, the dark drips are a source of tension. She awaits the day where she is caught between the office and the station, and the air raid sirens go off.

In late January, a now twenty-year old Beatrice slings her handbag over her shoulder to begin the nightly trip home. She does not even make it half way across the lobby when a familiar, thin face walks inside. Her blood freezes in its veins, heart pausing mid-beat. Bohm gives her his trademark unimpressed stare as he grabs her wrist and begins to walk her further into the ministry building.

“What are you doing?” says Beatrice. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Poland?”

“I’m on leave until April,” Bohm grumbles. “Come on.”

Beatrice looks around helplessly as she is pulled along, but the other secretaries have either gone home, or are still chipping away in the office. It is only her, Bohm, and the encompassing echo of their footsteps on the marble.

“Alexander, let go of me,” she says, trying to pull her wrist away. His grip begins to loosen. Beatrice steps back, but not before he takes her other wrist and whirls her around.

“Walk with me, or—”

“Or what, you’ll arrest me?” says Beatrice. “You’ve been threatening that for months now, and you’ve not done it. Fuck off, would you?”

She wrenches one wrist from his hold, but with her other arm still detained, it does not take much effort for him to reign her back in. Beatrice is wasting energy; she needs to convince him to let her go. Physical opposition has never done her any good with Bohm.

“I thought that gone were the days where you were foolish enough to ignore me,” he says. “I was under the impression that you had learnt your lesson.”

They glower at one another in silence. Beatrice knows he is waiting, expectant, for her to answer. She will not indulge him. She is a statue under his commanding glare, but proud all the same. Without fault, without cracks, and stoically unmoving. Bohm’s gaze flickers.

“I can offer you two options.” he says. He speaks with a sigh in his voice, as if every interaction is a drain on his energy. “One, we walk quietly to somewhere more public where you can comfortably talk to me. Or two, you refuse to cooperate, and I drag you into the most hidden, unvisited corner of this building. There is technically a third option, wherein you make a scene, but then I’ll have no choice to detain you, and we both know that will not yield pleasant results.”

Social convention prevents escape. Compliance prevents comfort. Defiance prevents safety. Bohm tugs on her arm.

“You can ignore him when he talks to you. You can refuse to go anywhere with him. You do not have to be alone with him.”

Beatrice pulls back. Bohm is forced to stop short and scowl at her for inhibiting him.

“No,” she says. “No, I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You won’t have me detained,” she says. “You say you will, but you won’t. It’s like you said; everything will come out. Everything, meaning you’ll have to arrest me, and you’ll break Rosalind’s heart.”

Bohm exhales deeply, and rubs his weary face. “I promised myself that I would not arrest you for the sake of my daughter. I made no such promise in regards to Konrad.”

“You wouldn’t dare—”

“I would if it guarantees your compliance.”

Beatrice gapes at him in disbelief. Never, not in twelve months of this pantomime of a posting, has Konrad ever been directly threatened by Bohm. Part of her is surprised that it has taken this long. Another part is surprised that it is happening at all. Bohm raises an eyebrow, and she knows that she is out of time. She needs to make her choice. Cooperate and give in? Or fight and risk her safety, and that of Konrad’s?

“Alright,” she says. “Alright Alexander, you win. We can…we can go outside and talk.”

“Oh no,” says Bohm. “No, no. You’ve forfeited the right to comfort, darling.”

Beatrice shudders. “Please don’t call me that,” she says lightly. “Let go of—stop it!”

Bohm wrenches her forwards and into a narrow, abandoned hallway. His peaked cap grazes the ceiling, and they cannot stand in the centre without at least one person’s back hitting the wall. Beatrice pushes Bohm away from her, but realises a moment too late that she has shoved him towards the main hallway. He stands between her and freedom. The only thing behind her is a dead end, and a decrepit shelf of moth-eaten books.

“You are ludicrous.” Beatrice spits. “Did you honestly think you’d to be able to…to force yourself on me, fuck off to Poland for a few months, then come back and expect to have a civil conversation with me?”

“I would have thought you’d be mature enough to—”

“Oh, what the fuck would you know about maturity?” says Beatrice. “Just because you’re old, and a man, and a general, that does not mean that you’re smarter than me.”

“I was drunk—”

“So that’s supposed to excuse everything?” says Beatrice. “Life is hard enough as it is. I don’t need this…this constant shadow, this fear, of being attacked by a man who’s already threatening to have me fucking strung up and quartered! I don’t care whether you were drunk or not. The fact that you did it is enough.”

“It was a stupid, drunken decision.” says Bohm. “It meant nothing to me, and it should change nothing. It should amount to nothing, and I was quite hoping that you would understand that. I’m sorry.”

Beatrice has to count to ten to give that poignant phrase enough time to connect with the logical centre of her brain. She stares, dumbfounded, at Bohm.

“What did you say?” she whispers.

Bohm groans and looks up at the ceiling. “Don’t make me say it again.”

“No, say it again, Alexander,” says Beatrice. “Go on.”

“No.”

“You owe me an apology,” says Beatrice. “The least you can do is look me in the eye and pretend that you feel some remorse.”

She waits. And waits. Bohm’s only response is a downcast gaze that flickers and twitches, as if he cannot decide where to focus. He says nothing. Moves nowhere. Like always, in his rare moments of doubt, he shuts himself away so that Beatrice cannot judge him.

And Beatrice finally comes to this realisation. The realisation that he will not apologise again. The first utterance was a cheap replica; it was designed to attempt to steer Beatrice away from scorning him any further. No meaning. No genuine remorse. Only the wish of moving on without saying a word.

“I see,” she says in recognition, and her voice is quieter for it. “You won’t apologise.”

“I didn’t come here with the intent of giving you my apologies,” says Bohm. “I came to give an explanation, and now you’ve heard it. Your opinion of me bears no consequence, but I cannot live peacefully without explaining my actions. Especially those that are so…drastic.”

Beatrice had been hoping for an apology, even if it meant so little. But the loss of the argument slumps her shoulders and wears at her energy. She sighs, and slips her shaking hands into her pockets.

“Is that all you wanted to say?” she asks softly. “Or is there something else you’d like to argue with me about?”

“There is,” he says. “Though it’s a message from Katrin, not me.”

“And what is it?”

“She’s hosting a small dinner party next Tuesday,” he says. “No more than a dozen people. You’ve been extended an invitation.”

“How thoughtful,” says Beatrice. “Any particular reason for this dinner party?”

“It’s our fortieth anniversary.”

“Congratulations,” Beatrice says flatly. “Tell Katrin that I’m sorry, but I won’t be attending.”

“I’ll tell her that you’re working then, shall I?”

“That would be most considerate of you,” says Beatrice. “Can I leave now, or do you honestly feel the need to detain me for a minute longer?”

Bohm rolls his eyes, scorned. But he steps aside all the same, gesturing for Beatrice to pass through. She hikes her handbag up higher on her shoulder and brushes past him. She smiles to herself as her heel comes down on his toes, and he yelps. She half expects him to lash out at her, but all she receives is an icy glare digging into the base of her skull.

When Beatrice meets with Rosalind for their weekly Sunday catch up, she is met by a barrage of complaints and grumbling. She arrives to see Rosalind clutching baby Sofie in one arm, and Wilhelm tugging at her skirt as he sits at her feet. A tea pot boils over, the dog sheds fur on the couch, and there are bags as dark as ebony under Rosalind’s eyes. Without saying a word, Beatrice scoops Wilhelm off of the floor and sets him on the couch, and pulls Sofie into her own arms.

“Bad day?” she asks.

“I didn’t realise how hard it would be without Dietrich,” Rosa mutters. “I was going to call you, but I know how busy work can be sometimes.”

“Alright, well next time your house looks like this—” Beatrice waves her arm at the chaotic lounge room. “Call me, and I’ll have a screaming match with Adenauer until he lets me leave. Watch your braid, it’s dripping in the tea.”

As they sink onto the plush couches, Wilhelm babbles and climbs onto his mother’s lap. Rosalind sighs, but smiles weakly and kisses his head.

“I managed to find them a nanny,” she says. “But I still think I ought to bring them along to the anniversary party. Mutti and Vati do adore them. Are you really sure you can’t make it?”

“Well, I know I just promised that I’d verbally abuse Adenauer for you,” says Beatrice. “But somehow, I think he’d see the difference between helping you look after your own children as opposed to going to a party.”

Rosalind huffs. “You’re right I suppose. It might get pushed back though, because of all of the bombing we’re having. If it ends up being another night, could you make it?”

“I could certainly try,”

Rosalind’s prediction comes true overnight. Another air raid pushes the party back to Wednesday. Then again to Thursday. In those limbo days, bouts of devastating headlines swamp Berlin.

“The Japs’ve bombed Darwin,” says Albert, throwing down his newspaper. “First Pearl Harbour, then this? They’re quick bastards.”

“Their air force specialises in long-distance bombing,” says Konrad. “So long as they avoid Australian planes, there isn’t very much standing in their way at all. And America is so far over the pond, their planes might as well be fighting another war altogether.”

But Australia is so far from Germany, and news of the bombings, while explosive, only holds Berlin’s attention for a day or two. By the time the dinner party finally rolls around, after being rescheduled yet again, the papers have moved on. Invasions of Bali and Timor, a new conscription law in Canada, and the bombing of an Italian shoe factory.

“The phoney war is over,” Beatrice thinks. “This is real now.”

Now, as the party is scheduled for another evening, Beatrice cannot avoid it with the same excuse as before. And to make use of some other pathetic reason would only make her look as if she were avoiding it purposely. So, that is how she finds herself among the other dinner guests that Friday evening.

With a much more poignant war at play, and rations stricter than ever before, the birthday dinner is a small affair. There are no more than a dozen guests, and no wait staff. The ballroom sits unused and empty. Instead, the guests remain in the sitting room.

Ration cards do not inhibit Katrin. Her skills in the kitchen are no less deterred, and she puts together a feast of tender beef and gravy, roast vegetables, dinner rolls, applesauce, and to top it all off, an elegant Prinzregententorte. As delicious as it is, Beatrice sees the cracks. Imitation cream, store-bought jam, and a layer of chocolate barely thicker than paper. The ration cards are a greedy beast. But each guest assures her that her cooking is as perfect as ever.

“You can’t tell at all, Katrin,” says Peter. “It tastes just the same as the real thing.”

Beatrice is still getting used to Alexander and Peter being in the same room as one another. Each time one of them speaks or moves, it takes her a moment of judgement to decipher which one is which. Elder brother, or younger brother? Field marshal, or lawyer? Dangerous, or safe?

At the piano, Beatrice perches on the seat with Wilhelm on her knee. They gently tap the softest notes in the most mouse-like rendition of Brahms Lullaby.

“This one here,” she whispers to him. “Then this one.”

His tiny fingers rest on top of hers. He does not remember the notes, but he knows the song. Wilhelm giggles and babbles one word, ‘star.’

“Quite the little musician, isn’t he?” says Beatrice as she hands him back to Rosalind. “Such potential.”

“Could I make a request?” says Rosalind. “For the couple of honour?”

Katrin scoffs. “You’re layering it on a little thick, Rosa.”

“Oh hush, I’m trying to be nice,” says Rosalind. “Lena, do you know Liebestraum number three?”

“No, no, do not play that.” Bohm shakes his head quickly. “For the love of God Miss Baumann, do not—”

“It’s their wedding song,” says Rosalind.

Beatrice gasps mockingly, and she grins at Bohm in a way that could almost be genuine. Her actions draw a disappointed and apprehensive sigh from Bohm. He holds his head in one hand as Katrin takes the other and attempts to pull him to his feet.

“Go on Alexander,” says Peter. “Give her a twirl.”

“Please?” says Katrin sweetly. “Don’t make me divorce you on our anniversary.”

“Oh, well how can I say no when you threaten me like that?”

He lets himself be pulled to his feet, and rests a narrow hand on Katrin’s waist. At the same time, Beatrice’s fingers begin to carefully dance across the piano.

Liebestraum is lilting. Gentle. Delicate. The notes are like sparrows swooping on air currents, lifted and lowered by the smallest of breezes, before suddenly ascending amongst the cold, blue sky once again. And the accompanying dance must be the same. Though she cannot see them, Beatrice knows that the aging couple at her back move slowly, with small but graceful steps that they lean into.

A hailstorm of high, rapid notes, sweet and warm, coaxes Bohm into spinning Katrin out ever so gently, before pulling her back into one complete, elegant, turn together. It is so fast and so smooth that Beatrice cannot deny they have danced this song before. Not only once forty years ago, but many dozens of times. A dance made in youth, and remembered in age.

Then it is gentle again, and so are they. Beatrice sees their shadow splayed against the wall. Their foreheads press together, and they only sway within the smallest of circles. On the day of their wedding, this might have been the moment to stare into one another’s eyes and dream of a new life. But now, after forty years, it is a moment of nostalgia. Remembrance. What has passed, and what is left over from it.

The notes fade away. There is a round of applause, and Beatrice turns around quickly enough to see how it makes Bohm blush. He softly takes Katrin’s face in both of his hands.

“The things I do for you,” he smiles, and kisses her cheek.

Beatrice takes comfort in knowing, that if nothing else, Bohm can still hold such an intense flame for Katrin after so long.

Among the celebrations, Beatrice finds a moment to escape to the bathroom. As she makes her way along a hallway upstairs, she notices a door leaning wide open that hadn’t been like that only two minutes beforehand. She peers inside to see Wilhelm sitting in the middle of Bohm’s study, his stuffed dog toy in his lap.

Beatrice tuts and walks over to pick up him. “You’re supposed to be in bed,”

Wilhelm babbles incoherently and smacks her in the face with his plush toy. Pushing her glasses up on her nose, she lifts Wilhelm and hold him against her chest.

“How’d you get in here?” she asks softly. “Hm?”

“Open,” he whispers. “Warm.”

“Is the nursery cold?”

He mumbles something, and nods his head.

Beatrice tuts. “I’ll find you some more blankets.”

As she is about to leave, something on Bohm’s desk draws her attention away. She jolts back. Wilhelm, thinking it is a game, giggles and smacks her again. With one gentle hand on the toy, Beatrice studies the incriminating object.

Photographs. At least a dozen, maybe more. They are not completely worn apart by grain, but carry a sharp enough contrast of values that tells Beatrice they are old. Not ten years old, but decades.

The voices downstairs are still loud. And Wilhelm is falling asleep on her shoulder. No one is coming upstairs.

She moves around to the opposite side of the desk and slides the nearest photograph closer. It is a family photo, clearly; each and every one of them looks exactly the same. And the fashion only confirms the photographs age. The eldest man wears a heavy, dark looking uniform with fitted sleeves, and has an arm around the narrow waist of a woman wearing a floor-length Victorian dress. The young girl, who appears to be the oldest of the three children, wears a similar dress, though it does not look as heavy, and is edged with far more lace. The boy wears what looks like an early model of a uniform of the great war, with plain and dull fabric, and a hunting knife through his belt. The baby nestled on the mothers lap is wrapped in a swathe of white, draping blankets.

Three of them in particular looking hauntingly familiar. The eldest man could be a carbon copy of Bohm, if Bohm had a thick beard and wider eyes. A boy, no older than eleven or twelve, bears a striking resemblance to Johannes, and therefore, to Bohm.

It only takes Beatrice a second to realise that it is Bohm. Bohm before he has even reached his teen years, with round cheeks instead of pointed, before his war days. Bohm with curly golden hair.

The man with the beard must be his father. And the baby has to be Peter. So naturally, by the power of deduction, the woman must be Bohm’s mother, and the young girl to his right must be a sister. Both of them are as stern looking as the rest of the family.

How does Bohm have a sister that nobody has ever mentioned? She knows his more immediate family far better than she could have imagined; his own brother is sitting downstairs telling some ridiculous joke. She has heard of Stefan, the supposedly thieving step-brother, but how can she not know about a sister?

Something about the photograph feels wrong. And not just a missing sister. There is something hidden here that makes the deepest, smallest parts of Beatrice’s brain light up with confusion and concern. Something so glaringly obvious, but so painfully distant. What is it?

She flips the photo over to see if anything is written on the back. For a moment she is filled with joy; there is something there! But then her heart sinks. It’s in Russian.

Russian?

Why is it in Russian?

Beatrice flips the photograph over. The Cyrillic alphabet. The dark uniforms. The pale faces and stern expressions. Surely this is a trick? It cannot honestly be real—

But it has to be. What other possible explanation is there?

Beatrice runs out of time to question what she sees as the door opens, and Bohm strides through. He must have already known that she is in here, because the scalding lour on his face is set in stone.

“This is a new low,” he says. “Even for you. Snooping through my office? Is that the best you can come up with—”

“You’re Russian.”

Her words hang in the air, suspended there by pure confusion. There is a void, a black hole, that deprives the office of its senses, save for sight. Beatrice does not hear the laughter downstairs. She cannot smell fresh paper and cologne. She cannot feel the baby asleep in her arms. All she can think, feel, and know is the horribly confronting accusation she has just put forwards.

The supposedly solid scowl on Bohm’s face falls away at those words. He hastily tries to cover it with a confused and contemptuous look, but the flash of fear in his eyes is too clever and too noticeable for Beatrice to miss.

To her own surprise, she begins to laugh. A dark, quiet, mocking sound that she has never imagined herself capable of. But the scenario is all too ironic for her not to laugh.

“Oh Alexander,” she grins. “You hypocrite.”

“I’m not…that’s…” Bohm huffs and attempts to draw himself up to his full height. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Beatrice smiles at him as if he is hopeless. “You’re a terrible liar.”

He gapes, and his hands twitch, as she folds up the photograph with one hand and slips it into her pocket.

“Insurance,” she says, patting the fabric that it lies behind. “I’m sure you understand.”

She draws another photograph closer. This one is just him and Peter, barely a year older.

“How old are you in this one?” she wonders aloud. “Twelve? Thirteen?”

“I…that’s none of your business, Miss Baumann,” Bohm spits. “I’m not R—”

“Oh, shut up would you?” says Beatrice. “I’m not an idiot. I know Cyrillic when I see it.”

And as if to prove it, she flips the photograph over, holding it up so that he can see the black ink looping across the back of the paper. Bohm’s narrow shoulders slump; his grey eyes cast to the ground.

“Now, this one here is particularly interesting,” says Beatrice. She holds up a third photograph, one that has been lingering underneath the pile as if hidden away. “I’ll have you know that my grandparents spent an awful lot of money to send me away to boarding school, so I returned the favour by actually paying attention in class. And because of those dutiful years of study, I’m very confident in saying that this young man you’re standing next to is the Tsar Nicholas the second. Did I get that right?”

After almost two years of being forced into playing Bohm’s little games, going along with his threats and coercion, it feels good to have him forced along with her for once. She waits patiently until he sighs in defeat.

“Half right,” he mutters. “He was the Tsarevich in that photo.”

“Ah, close enough,” says Beatrice. “And what, Alexander, are you doing in a photograph with the soon-to-be last emperor of Russia?”

“I—” Bohm curses under his breath, curling his fingers into fists, then uncurling. “I’m not talking to you about this. You…you can’t manipulate me into answering you.”

Beatrice grimaces. “Yes, well you’ve practically just admitted to being Russian, so as far as I’m concerned, I have leverage,” she says slowly. “So, if you’d rather keep your fancy titles and good standing with your Fuhrer, I would advise that you answer me.”

“Do you enjoy this?” Bohm spits. “Playing the interrogator?”

“It’s fun,” says Beatrice. “I know why you do it to me so much now. It feels very…powerful. So, about these photos—”

“I’m not going to answer—”

“You’re going to answer, or I will rat on you,” says Beatrice firmly. “We’ve seen firsthand that people are not afraid to start rumours about you. If this gets out, nothing you say will have any credibility, including any future accusations against me. So, Alexander, if I were you, it would be within my best interests to answer every question that I ask you. Yes?”

Bohm chews his lip. His eyes glaze over the photographs that still lay exposed, the one held between Beatrice’s fingertips, and the one folded up inside of her pocket. And mostly, they linger on the baby in her arms. He can’t rush her. He can’t force the photographs from her. She would never hurt Wilhelm, but he cannot risk that, especially when he doesn’t even know if she will tell anyone or not.

“Yes,” he mutters. “Very well, I’ll answer your…your questions.”

“Wonderful,” says Beatrice. “Let’s go back to my original question. Why are you in a photograph with Nicholas the second?”

“We were related.”

Beatrice smirks and raises an eyebrow. “Is that an attempt at humour, Alexander?”

“Given my current position, I’m not foolish enough to antagonise you.”

Beatrice scoffs. “You’re joking with me, aren’t you?”

But his shifting, embarrassed gaze says otherwise. Beatrice’s stomach rolls and churns. Her mind races faster than she can keep up with, as a million thoughts flow through her brain before she can even produce a coherent sound.

“You’re not joking with me,” she breathes. “No, wait…how…no, you are joking with me. You’re trying to trick me, because there is no possible way in hell that you are related to the Romanov family.”

“Believe what you want to believe, I suppose.”

Beatrice squints at him. “You’re being too candid with this,” she says. “You…you really aren’t lying?”

“No.” says Bohm. “Not in the slightest.”

“Prove it.”

Bohm screws up his mouth and tenses his shoulders, as if he is debating compliance. He knows as well as Beatrice that the tables have turned, and refusing to answer her is not an option. He pulls a small set of keys from his pocket.

“Bottom drawer,” he says. “Catch.”

He tosses the keys across the room, and they land in Beatrice’s outstretched hand. She carefully balances Wilhelm as she kneels in front of the desk and unlocks the third drawer. She rifles through the pages, never really knowing what it is she is searching for.

Until she reaches the bottom of the stack, and a folded, glossy piece of grey paper stares up at her.

“This one?” she asks, holding it up. He nods.

Beatrice unfolds the paper, laying it out across the desk so that she can see it better.

He isn’t lying.

Beatrice does not need to be able to speak Russian to know that she is looking at a family tree. Each tiny portrait is framed and connected by twirling, smooth vine-like lines in various colours. Red denotes marriage. Blue shows the relationship between parent and child. Green shows mistresses and divorcees.

There are perhaps a dozen portraits encircled in dark gold. They are Tsars. From Peter the Great, to Catherine the second, all the way to the last emperor himself.

It takes Beatrice a moment to find Bohm’s name amongst it all. But there it is, near the bottom of the page. Aleksandr, son of Nikolai and Elena, brother to Pyotr and Anastasiya.

“Ah, so you do have a sister,” says Beatrice. “I’m going to assume she doesn’t live in Berlin. Where is she?”

“Russia.” says Bohm. “In Leningrad.”

Beatrice frowns. “You were advancing on Leningrad barely six months ago. You weren’t afraid you were going to kill her?”

“I haven’t spoken to her in almost fifty years,” says Bohm. “It doesn’t make a difference to me whether she’s alive or not.”

Beatrice expects to feel overwhelmed by that statement. How can anyone have such glaring apathy for their own sister? A childhood friend, a companion, a teacher? But as always, Bohm reveals nothing in his face, and little more in his words. And Beatrice feels nothing but pride at having uncovered so much from such a reserved man.

“Well…sibling rivalry aside,” she says, eyes sweeping up the family tree. “Explain to me how you’re related to Nicholas the second.”

“Miss Baumann, this is bordering on psychological torture,” says Bohm. “You’re not going to tell this to anyone, surely?”

“The more you tell me, the more likely it is I won’t tell,” says Beatrice. “So for your own sake, keep talking.”

It is eating him up inside, telling Beatrice everything. She can see how awkwardly he holds himself, and how aware he is that they have swapped positions.

“Our…our great grandfather was Tsar Nicholas the first,” he says. “He had several children, the eldest of whom was Alexander the second; the late Tsar Nicholas’ grandfather. The second eldest of these children was Grand Duke Ivan. My grandfather.”

Beatrice looks at the dates beneath his grandfather’s name. Ivan was younger than Alexander the second by one year. The second eldest son. Then she looks at Bohm’s father’s birthdate; he was the eldest in the family. And Bohm himself is the eldest son.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” she says. “But…if your grandfather had been a year older…you would have been in line for the throne. You would have been made the Tsar in…1907.”

No. No, surely that can’t be right. Surely her years at an elite school in London have lead her astray, surely there is something she has missed, because there is no conceivable way that Alexander Bohm could have ever been in line for the Russian throne. But his solemn nod confirms her suspicions.

“You’re correct,” he says. “But at most, I was never any more than fourth in line.”

“Well, thank god for that,” she says, and though they are her own words, she does not know whether they are sarcastic or not. “So if you weren’t the Tsarevich…what were you?”

Bohm rubs his face, muttering something against his hand.

“What was that?” asks Beatrice.

“I…”

“Come on Alexander,” says Beatrice. “Easy question.”

He glowers up at her. His eyes are shining, and his face is twisted into hatred.

“I was born,” he says. “Grand Duke Alexander Nikolayevich Romanov.”

His voice takes on a power and harshness that Beatrice has never seen before. She stumbles backwards at the sound of it, her heart racing. And in that moment, there is no denying that the man in front of her was once a member of Russian nobility.

“You really weren’t joking,” she whispers. “You are Russian.”

“I’m not stupid enough to lie to you.” says Bohm.

“So why are you here?” she asks. “Why is an ex-grand duke of Russia lowering himself to a position in a foreign military?”

She knows that it could not have been the October Revolution. Bohm fought for the Germans in the first war; she has seen the medals herself. He had left Russia before that.

“A simple enough reason, really,” he says. “My parents fell out of love. It’s difficult to divorce as a royal, but my father was not a popular character to begin with, and nobody wanted him near the throne. They just…let him leave. He took Peter and I to Dusseldorf, Germanised our names, assumed our grandmother’s maiden name, and started again. I was twelve at the time.”

“You went from Grand Duke Aleksandr Nikolayevich Romanov,” says Beatrice. “To plain Alexander…?”

“Joachim.” he says. “Alexander Joachim Bohm.”

“And your sister?” says Beatrice. “What happened to her?”

Bohm’s shoulders slump. “She was only a girl, and my father thought of her as good for nothing more than marrying and producing heirs. And as he was beginning a new family, even that was not good enough for him. She stayed behind with my mother. They moved to Ukraine after the revolution.”

Beatrice’s eyes flicker to the framed photograph of Katrin on his desk. It looks as if it was taken only a few years ago. She smiles warmly at the photograph, leaning forward in complete relaxation. Beatrice guesses that Bohm took that photo himself.

“Does she know?”

Bohm breathes in shakily. “Who?”

“Katrin.”

He shakes his head. “No. Only Peter, Anastasia, and my step-mother.”

“And now me,” says Beatrice. Bohm grimaces as she bounces Wilhelm up and down lightly.

“Yes,” he sighs. “And now you. And I need you to swear, Miss Baumann, that you will keep your promise and not tell a soul.”

Beatrice has no intention of telling anybody. Not yet. Bohm has leverage against her, and now she has leverage against him. What good is it to end it all now, when she can keep one of the most powerful men in Germany under her thumb for a little while longer.

But Bohm doesn’t know that. He does not know that she will not tell, and he does not know how strongly she intends to hold onto this leverage.

“We’ll see,” Beatrice says lightly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a party to be enjoying, and a baby to put back to bed.”

As she passes by him, she lingers in the doorway at his back. He turns his head ever so slightly to look at her.

“Your royal highness,” she murmurs. Bohm sighs and turns away as Beatrice chuckles and walks away.

She cannot stop thinking about it all night. When Bohm raises a fresh glass of scotch to his lips, she imagines a servant in a tuxedo pouring it out for him. When he tugs at his collar, she imagines him in a high collared jacket with dark gold epaulettes and an aiguillette. When he pushes back his hair, she imagines the narrowly avoided possibility of the Tsars crown upon his head, and the bestowed title of Alexander the fourth.

She imagines that he never meets Katrin. Never has Rosalind or Johannes. Never becomes a general. And she imagines that he never becomes her rival. Instead, she imagines that another man sits in his place, a man with a simpler life and a demeanour that does not require hours of analysis to understand.

Her heart skips a beat when he stands, and raises his glass. In that second, as his chin turns upward and his shoulders roll back, it is plain to see that Romanov blood still runs through his veins.

“I suppose I’m required to make a toast at some point,” he says. “So I may as well get it over with now. Forty years ago, and now one week, Katrin and I married in a small church in a village no one had heard of. She assured me then, that as poor and distant from our families as we were, life would be perfect, no matter the challenges that life threw at us.”

He looks down at Katrin, who is blushing, and whose eyes shine. “And she was right. Of course. In forty years she has helped me to build a new life, to become a wiser and kinder person, and given me the two brilliant children who are single-handedly responsible for turning my hair grey.”

The table chuckles, and Katrin’s laugh is weak with tears.

Bohm raises his glass. “To forty years. And the beautiful woman who has been my rock with every passing day.”

There are cheers of agreeance up and down the table. Katrin laughs, and the moment that her glass rests against the table, her arms are around Bohm’s shoulders.

Beatrice thinks of Claudette, sitting in the attic with little more than a foolish Irish boy and an irritable German. They’ve been together, in the most basic of terms, for the best part of a year and then some. Many have married after far shorter courtships, and what Beatrice feels for Claudette is as strong as she has ever believed love could be. Could they last that long? Forty years?

“Stop it,” Beatrice thinks to herself. “Do not compare yourself to a privileged snake.”

She stops comparing herself to Bohm. To Katrin. To Rosalind, to Dietrich, to Johannes, and to every self-absorbed, rich member of the elite who has merely had to click their fingers and have their wealth brought to them on a silver platter. She stops comparing herself to those who believe that hardship is having the size of your meal downsized, or their favoured brand of perfume restricted. She stops comparing herself to these Nazis who believe they are entitled to lands that are not their own, to take lives they have no authority over, and to create conflicts based on the raving whims of a singular, deluded man.

Because why sit languid upon a throne built from other’s hardships when you can take pride at having made something for yourself?

And Beatrice silently curses the former grand duke.


	18. A Beginners Guide to Russian

Beatrice can hardly wait the next morning. The same jittering, buzzing excitement as Christmas Day ricochets inside of her as she bounds down the stairs. Konrad has taken to his typical spot at the dining table with his back to the kitchen, where Claudette is cracking eggs into the pan.

“Is Albert still in bed?” Beatrice asks breathlessly.

“No, he’s definitely awake,” says Konrad. “He came down the stairs at five o’clock this morning as loud as—where are you going, woman?”

Beatrice races up the stairs and fervently knocks on Albert’s door. She only waits a moment before throwing it open.

“Ah, that was bloody good timing Bee,” he says, and quickly buttons his pants. “What’s so important for you to nearly walk in on me getting dressed?”

“Come on, hurry up!” says Beatrice, reaching forward and grabbing his wrist. “I have important news, and you know I don’t like repeating myself.”

She tugs him back down the winding staircase until they reach the kitchen again. Both Claudette and Konrad raise their eyebrows at such a ruckus.

“Bohm is Russian,” Beatrice pants.

Konrad chokes on his coffee, and puts a hand to his mouth. Claudette drops her plate, which shatters into a dozen pieces. And Albert, classic Albert, does nothing but gape.

“And before you ask, no, I am not insane,” says Beatrice. She jumps the last stair and pulls out the photographs she openly stole the night before. “I found these in his office last night. He caught me, but I’d already figured everything out. I forced him to admit it, then and there.”

Konrad coughs down his coffee, clutching his heaving chest. “H…how…how is he Russian?”

“Oh, that’s the fun part,” says Beatrice. “And it’s going to sound ridiculous, but he’s related to the Romanov’s. Actually, I think he was a Romanov.”

“Yeah, go back to that first bit, Bee,” says Albert. “How the bloody fuck is Bohm Russian?”

“The same way you’re Irish, I’m English, Claudette is French, and Konrad is German,” says Beatrice. “His parents were Russian. He moved here when he was twelve, and took his grandmothers last name.”

The kitchen is silent. There is a lull in which the newly informed trio take a moment to realise what Beatrice has just told them. Tiny battles wage within each of their heads as they debate, refute, and accept the ludicrous thought. Is Beatrice lying? Is this a joke? Or has she uncovered a scandal large enough to ruin an entire family’s life? One by one, they study Beatrice’s face. Her mannerisms. Why would she tell them Bohm is Russian if he were not. And is it even possible for her to make such a mistake?

No. She is telling the truth. And all three of them know it.

“Bloody hell,” says Albert, and chuckles. “Nazi’s wouldn’t be happy if they found that out.”

“Albert makes a good point,” says Konrad more seriously. “Who else knows that Bohm is Russian?”

“His brother, his step-mother, and his sister,” says Beatrice. “The latter of whom most people don’t even know exists.”

“You said Bohm is related to the Romanovs,” says Claudette slowly. “Yes?”

“His great grandfather was Tsar Nicholas the first,” says Beatrice. “Bohm was never an heir though because his great uncle took the throne instead of his grandfather.”

Now all three of them are gaping at her in disbelief. Without proof, with only Beatrice’s word, the sheer weight of her words is too much for them to truly understand. It overwhelms them, so much so that they can hardly speak.

“He’s a Romanov?” says Konrad. “Good Lord…picture him in a palace. How proud he must have felt.”

“I imagine a lot of that vanity is still running strong,” says Beatrice. “You’re born a grand duke; you stay a grand duke.”

“He was a grand duke?” Konrad says. “You’re not serious?”

“Would I lie to you?” says Beatrice. “Yes, he was a grand duke. Aleksandr Nikolayevich Romanov.”

“And he really told you all of this?” says Claudette. “I wouldn’t have thought that he would be very…open to talking about it.”

“I already had enough evidence to get him in serious trouble,” says Beatrice. “I threatened to tell someone if he didn’t keep talking.”

Beatrice can see in their eyes, that at the exact same moment, each of them has a though identical to one another’s. Beatrice has leverage against Bohm. The tables have turned, the game has been flipped upside, and now it is Beatrice with all of the power. One little word to Adenauer or Goebbels, both of whom who are so easily accessible, and Bohm’s entire career, his entire life, comes crashing down around him. His legacy, his family, his reputation, would be shattered. The Germans would faint to know that their most beloved general is none other than a Slav himself. The Wehrmacht would lose its most powerful commander.

“You could ruin him,” says Konrad. “If he tries to have you arrested or exposed, you could have him discharged from the army. Or worse.”

“I know,” Beatrice says. “And he knows it too. He’s petrified that I’ll tell someone.”

Konrad chuckles darkly, and downs the last of his coffee. “Good. That’ll keep the grand duke on his toes.”

Beatrice laughs at his ridiculing words, and pulls out the seat opposite him. “And now I can live in relative peace.”

Albert flops into the chair beside Beatrice, and puts his feet up on the table. “You could make him do anything.” he grins, the endless possibilities running through his head. “He could buy us extra rations, better food, the list goes on.”

“I’d rather not push him at the moment,” says Beatrice. “He still has more legal power than I do. I’d rather not make a mistake and lose what little authority I have over him.”

“We can’t do anything rash,” Konrad agrees. “And get your feet off of my table boy, I’m eating.”

The next two months, Beatrice takes on a new mission. Not to assassinate political leaders, or to pilfer documents from the offices of the elite. But to see the world from Bohm’s point of view, and to learn Russian. Any photographs, documents, or proof she can find will no doubt be in that complex language, and Beatrice feels all the more stable in being able to at least understand some of it. She paces around the library, wracking her brain for the right pronunciations, intonations, and emphasis. She clutches a German to Russian dictionary in her hands and scans across the pages. Papers full of useful words and phrases litter the table as she searches for new words to absorb.

“Dyuna for dune, dyadya for uncle, dern for sod,” she murmurs. “Right, because when am I going to need to use ‘sod’…”

Konrad strolls into the room, eyeing the dozens of papers that clutter his beautiful library. He himself speaks moderate Russian, and spends hours at a time refusing to speak to Beatrice in any other language. He tells her that the fastest way to learn a new language is to immerse yourself in it. Beatrice tells him to fuck off.

“Kak ty pozhivayesh?” he asks.

“Neplokho,” Beatrice says slowly. “No ne khorosho.”

Konrad smiles proudly. “You’re doing just fine. It takes a long time to learn Russian, especially with that alphabet of theirs.”

Beatrice knows that one day, eventually, it will be either her secret or Bohm’s that is exposed. And she fully intends for it to be his. When the time comes for that fatal accusation, she wants to be as ready as possible, and she will need more evidence than an old photograph. She needs letters, dates, names, records. Verification that the supposedly perfect Nazi general is not nearly as perfect as the world makes him out to be. To do that, Beatrice needs to speak to him again, to force his story from him. The doomsday clock is ticking, the hourglass is losing its sand, but Beatrice does not know when it will run out. She needs to move swiftly. She needs to act. The sooner she can weaken the Panzer Divisions, the sooner the Soviet Union will push the Germans back into Poland. And the sooner this war will be over.

More than once, Albert has questioned her motives. ‘Why not just kill him?’ he asks her, ‘Wouldn’t that be easier?’ But Beatrice knows that she cannot kill Bohm. Physically, he is far stronger than she is. Even if she could find a way to assassinate him, she is not sure that her emotional ties to Rosalind would allow her. At least a dozen people are dead because of her direct actions. No matter how much she hates Bohm, she cannot do it again. She is in the same position as he is. They cannot harm one another. Not without hurting Rosalind.

And won’t it be so much sweeter to do it like this? After years of psychological torture, won’t it be all the better to let the people that worship Bohm like a God be the ones to tear him down?

On a particularly frosty Tuesday evening Beatrice and Claudette relax in the sitting room, playing a very one-sided game of Black Jack. Claudette is winning by a mile. Stacks of old, worthless poker chips tower on her side, while Beatrice only has a few mediocre pieces.

“How are you so good at this?” she asks, peering at her cards. “And how do you always know when to call my bluff?”

“You look at your chips when you’re bluffing.”

Beatrice curses and picks up another card. She curses again; she’s gone over twenty-one.

“See, now I know I don’t need to pick up another card,” Claudette laughs. “Come on, give me my chips.”

Beatrice glowers and slides two chips over. She has three left.

Albert comes clattering down the stairs, skipping the bottom one like always. He rests his elbows on the table and flicks his hair back.

“Who’s winning?”

“Who does it look like, you twat?” says Beatrice. “I’ll stand.”

She has eighteen. But Claudette has twenty. Fuck.

“Hey Bee, I’ve noticed something,” says Albert. “Your accent’s gone all funny.”

“How’d you mean?”

“Well, it’s…it’s all German,” he says. “Half German, half Oxford. It’s a little weird actually.”

Beatrice casts a nervous glance to Claudette. She asks her, silently, if it is true. Has she really been here so long that she has lost her accent? Claudette’s blushing smile confirms it.

“Is it really?” Beatrice asks softly. She hears the words. They are familiarly posh and clipped at the vowels, but harsh and foreign at the consonants.

“Saint Peter, it really is different,” she says. “Now that you mention it, I actually like it—”

The phone rings out shrilly, making all three of them jump. Beatrice gets up to answer it as Claudette gleefully adds her newest additions to her stacks.

“Magdalen Baumann,” says Beatrice.

“Lena dear, it’s Katrin,” says the voice on the other end. “Rosalind wouldn’t happen to be with you, would she?”

“No, I’ve not seen her since Sunday,” says Beatrice. “Why? What’s wrong?”

She can hear the panic in Katrin’s voice, the unsteady and laboured breathing. She’s been crying, or about to cry.

“Well, we were meant to have dinner tonight,” she says. “She’s been struggling quite a bit since Dietrich left, and we thought we’d give her a few days to relax at home. But she hasn’t shown up, and it’s been two hours. Rosalind hates being five minutes late, let alone two whole hours.”

“Is it possible she’s in the hospital?” says Beatrice. “She’s seven months along, it’s not unreasonable to assume she’s gone into labour.”

“She would have called me,” says Katrin. “When you saw her on Sunday, did she seem any different?”

Beatrice thinks back to their weekly lunch just a few days ago. Rosalind had been as bright and happy as ever, if not a little tired from raising two young children. But no different.

“She was herself when I saw her,” says Beatrice. “Have you called in to see her?”

“Not yet,” says Katrin. “I wanted to see if she was with you first, but I suppose I’d better go see now.”

“Well let me know if she’s not home, and I can be there in fifteen minutes,” says Beatrice. “Good night Katrin,”

“Good night my dear, I’ll let you know.”

Though it is logical to believe that nothing is wrong, Beatrice still feels a sense of unease as she sets the phone back down. She reminds herself of how emotional Rosalind’s mother can be sometimes, and that unease fizzles. The reality is likely little more than Katrin fussing over nothing.

“What was that about?” says Albert.

“Katrin hasn’t been able to get a hold of Rosalind,” says Beatrice. “She’s not answering the house phone, or shown up to dinner with her mother. I think Katrin’s just overreacting; Rosa’s probably gone into labour and hasn’t been able to tell anyone.”

Albert joins in with the game, but no sooner have they gotten halfway through that the phone rings again. Beatrice groans and gets up to answer it.

“What’s the bet that she’s just gone into labour?” says Beatrice.

“I wouldn’t go placing bets if I were you,” says Albert. “You’re a lousy gambler if this card game is anything to go by.”

“Fuck off.” Beatrice puts the phone to her ear. “Katrin?”

“She’s not here,” says Katrin. “Alexander called the hospital, and she’s not there either.”

The unease returns like a wave. Beatrice is suddenly very aware of Albert and Claudette’s eyes following her. She feels giddy, and turns away, holding the phone closer to her ear.

“What about the children?” she asks. “Where are they?”

“They’re here,” says Katrin. “Alone.”

“Alone?” says Beatrice. “Rosalind would never do that; she would be in an absolute state.”

Katrin takes a shuddering breath. “Do you think you could come to her house? Please?”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Beatrice hangs up with a sigh. Wordlessly, she begins lacing her shoes and reaching for her coat.

“She’s not in the hospital,” says Beatrice. “Not at home, and she left her children alone. Something’s not right, clearly.”

“You’re going to look for her?” says Albert.

Beatrice is well aware of Albert’s opinion of Rosalind. He has never said it outright, but she knows that he disapproves of their friendship. Rosalind is the daughter of a Nazi. The enemy.

“She’s one of the reasons I haven’t been arrested yet,” says Beatrice. “And I’d rather not lose what protection she’s giving me. When Eugen gets back, please tell him where I’ve gone.”

Without the car, Beatrice is forced to take a shortcut through the Tiergarten. It’s freezing, winter is just a few weeks away, and her clothes are either too old or too thin to provide enough warmth. Beatrice shivers and turns up her collar. The sun is beginning to set, and the park is steeped in a cold, dark blue light.

When she reaches Rosalind’s house, a golden light shines through the front window. But when she knocks on the door, it is Bohm who answers.

“She’s really not here?” Beatrice asks, stepping inside of the mercifully warm house. “And she just left the children alone?”

Bohm is holding Sofie, and bounces the little girl up and down in his arms. “They were in the nursery,” he says. “Asleep and perfectly calm. Katrin’s upstairs with Wilhelm.”

“Have you called—”

“No one else has seen her,” says Bohm. “We called all of her friends, the secretaries, Adenauer. Katrin spoke to the neighbours, but still, nothing.”

Beatrice grinds her teeth. Just as Bohm and Katrin did upon their arrival, she begins to search the house. Everything is as neat and orderly as Rosalind always likes it to be. Neatness is a gene that runs in the Bohm family. Not a single thing is out of order. Every dish is washed to a gleam. Every cushion sits upright and plump. The countertops are spotless, so clean you could eat straight off of them.

Except for one thing. In the kitchen, left open and sitting beside the refrigerator, is a telegram.

Pale yellow and small, the telegram was the one thing that every family across the globe has in common in this clenching war. The announcement of death. The Grim Reaper’s messenger. Beatrice gently reaches for it, as if it will fall to pieces in her hands. Her suspicions are confirmed as she sees Dietrich’s name written in the space allocated for the deceased soldier.

“Alexander,” she calls. He appears a moment later, Sofie still in his arms. His eyes land on the telegram, and his shoulders slump.

“It was already open,” says Beatrice. “Dietrich’s dead.”

Beatrice, who always admired but never loved Dietrich, feels her heart sink in her chest. A weighty and tugging sort of feeling. Not pure grief, but the knowledge of an innocent life being cut short. It is a powerful thing to grapple with.

“She must have already seen it,” Bohm says quietly. “And since there was no one here to help her—”

“She would have run off,” Beatrice finishes. “Alone, and in a right state.”

They realise what that means at the same time. Rosalind is alone, pregnant, and grieving in the middle of freezing Berlin. And nobody knows where she is.

Bohm and Beatrice race for the stairs and throw open the door to the nursery. Katrin is perched on the armchair, reading a story book to Wilhelm. She looks up, wide-eyed, as the pair rushes inside, breathless.

“Katrin,” Bohm says quietly. “I think you need to come downstairs.”

Katrin lays Wilhelm down in his bed as Bohm places Sofie in her cot. Beatrice closes the door softly behind them, and all three descend back to the sitting room. Bohm quietly takes Katrin’s arm and leads her into the kitchen. Moments later, Beatrice hears a harsh sob echo. Bohm’s voice, quiet and low, comes in whispers.

“She would have run off, she wouldn’t know what to do,” he says. “We’ll find her, and we will help her.”

“She must be so scared,” Katrin whispers. “She loved him; she’ll be lost without him.”

Bohm murmurs something that Beatrice cannot hear. There are a few moments of silence in which Beatrice looks back to the Tiergarten. It is nightfall down, and the sun has completely sunken beneath the concrete peaks. A light snowfall, greyish-blue in the moonlight, makes her shudder despite her coat.

Bohm strides back into the sitting room and reaches for his coat. “I’ve called Katrin’s sister, and the two of them are going to stay here in case she comes back. You, Peter, and I are going to look for Rose.”

“Look for her where?” says Beatrice, rushing after him as he strides outside. “There are a million and one places she could be.”

“I know my daughter better than you do, Miss Baumann,” says Bohm. “She’ll be somewhere in the Tiergarten I’m sure of it.”

The blizzard-like temperature swirls around the two of them. Beatrice wraps her arms around herself and hurries to keep up with Bohm. She is glad for her sturdy Oxfords tonight, rather than her heels. The roads are slick with ice and snow, and anything more unsteady would send her flying. She prays Rosalind is wearing sensible shoes.

“What makes you so sure of that?” says Beatrice.

“It’s close, and Rose spent hours there playing and building forts in the trees as a girl,” says Bohm. “And most importantly, it’s where Dietrich proposed to her.”

“Of course,” Beatrice thinks. “Emotional attachment.”

The Tiergarten is only across the street, but as they reach the beginning of the gravel pathways, Beatrice realises just how expansive the park is. Almost two miles from end to end, and with the light fading, it could take an hour just to make it to the other side let alone actually putting effort into searching. Three people cannot cover the entire park with any sort of efficiency.

“Don’t go too far,” says Bohm. “Call out if you find her.”

At the first fork, Beatrice goes right, and Bohm goes left. With the sun gone, shadow swallows any part of the park not within the halo of the street lamps. An eerie golden glow hangs over the regions that are lit, grey and faded at the edges as if it is barely strong enough to hold the darkness back. No one else is foolish enough to be walking around at this time of the night.

Beatrice searches behind fallen logs, under bushes, in any hiding places big enough to fit a person. She backtracks, goes off of the path more than once, and ends up back at the first fork at least twice, but not once does she find any sign of Rosalind. The Tiergarten is so much larger when you are one person among five hundred acres of dark and cold greenery.

After twenty minutes of thoroughly searching the westernmost section of the park, Beatrice begins to make her way towards the centre. Peter must be here and searching by now, but there has still been no sign or call about Rosalind.

Beatrice finds the brothers towards the centre of the Tiergarten a few minutes later. Both of them are as pale as the snow on their shoulders, their cheeks bright red.

“Still nothing?” says Beatrice, wading through the snow to get to them. “Are we even sure she’s here?”

“It doesn’t make sense for her to be anywhere else,” says Bohm. “We’ve alerted the police; they’re searching the streets and the east end of the park. We’ll keep searching here.”

It is getting too cold and too dark to travel alone. If any of them slip on the ice, or find Rosalind without the others, it will be near impossible to call attention to themselves. Their voices grow hoarser and hoarser each time one of them speaks, as the cold air seeps into their lungs. Beatrice would not be in the least bit surprised if the temperature is approaching freezing.

They walk along the Landwehr Canal, one of the few places adequately lit by streetlights. The water is inky black and opaque, and the light that gleams atop its wavering surface is harsh and titanium. God, how cold it would be…

Beatrice stops in her tracks, and Bohm smacks into her. But rather than complain, his gaze follows her own. In the middle of the canal, a body lies face-up.

“Shit,” Beatrice breathes. All three grab the railing that separates the park from the canal and peer down at it. There is no denying that it is Rosalind. Her blonde curls look grey in the dark light, and her round cheeks are lifeless and white. Her eyes are closed. She does not stir.

Beatrice gapes up at Bohm, who has not moved. “Well?”

“I can’t swim,” Bohm says, his eyes going wide with panic.

Beatrice stares at him in disbelief. “What do you mean you can’t swim?”

She whips around to Peter, who gives her a similar look. Beatrice realises what she must do, and groans audibly.

“Oh my god.” As she speaks she pulls off her jacket, gives Peter her glasses, and slips off her shoes. The railing is freezing against her bare hands as she clambers over. She clutches it, the last safety net to keep her from falling into the water. Rosalind is no more than thirty feet out. Beatrice can swim that easily.

And she dives forward.

The water is so much colder than any swimming pool in England. It is like hundreds of tiny needles are sinking into the very centre of her brain all at once. The water bites her skin, tugs at her clothes, scrapes at her lungs. She breaks the surface with a gasp. Her whole body is shivering. She allows herself one moment to breath, to try and ignore the ice clawing at her veins, before cutting through the water towards Rosalind.

It gets colder with every stroke. A chunk of ice brushes Beatrice’s cheek. Her heartbeat is louder than thunder. Left arm, right leg. Right arm, left leg. She tells herself that swimming faster will make her warmer. It does not.

Her hand brushes Rosalind’s stomach. Beatrice loops her arms under Rosalind’s and pulls her back against her stomach. Her head lolls against Beatrice’s shoulder, but there is no time to check for a pulse. She must keep moving.

Swimming backwards with another person is infinitely harder than just plain strokes. Rosalind’s clothes are as heavy and waterlogged as her own, not to mention that she is twice Beatrice’s size. Beatrice curses herself every time she has to stop to catch her breath. Twenty feet to go. Fifteen feet. Ten.

Her back scrapes the stone canal wall. Bohm and Peter reach over the railing and grab Rosalind’s arm. Beatrice grabs at the railing as they pull her over; her fingers are numb. Paralysed. She cannot move them.

Bohm has Rosalind now, and Peter takes Beatrice’s wrist. He helps her out of the water, holding onto her as she clumsily climbs back over the railing and collapses onto the grass. He wraps Beatrice’s coat around her shoulders, then removes his own and gives her that too. He keeps his arms around her, attempting to warm her with his own body heat. Beatrice can only shiver in response.

Two feet away, Bohm kneels beside Rosalind and presses down on her chest, his hands atop one another. He is putting his whole body weight into the movements, and yet only a thin trickle of water dribbles from Rosalind’s mouth. Beatrice hears him muttering to himself, over and over again.

“Come on Rose, you’re alright,” he whispers. “Please, I promise you’re alright.”

“Alexander…” Peter reaches out a tender hand, but Bohm bats it away. He presses down on Rosalind’s chest harder, again and again, as his voice becomes more choked up with tears.

“Rose, please,” he whispers. “Wake up.”

Rosalind does not move. Bohm’s hands shake as if the world beneath him is crumbling. He touches a trembling finger to his daughter’s wrist, desperately feeling for a pulse he already knows is not there.

Beatrice slumps against Peter as a terrible scream comes strangled from Bohm’s throat.

Everything is numb. Cold. Slow. Policemen cordon off the area as a doctor stands over Rosalind’s pale body. Her arms are so pale. They are porcelain; they will shatter into a thousand pieces if they are not careful with her. Another doctor kneels beside Beatrice, draping a blanket around her shoulders. Still she shivers. She will never stop shivering. He asks her a dozen questions, does she remember her name, the date, where she is, what happened? Beatrice answers them all quietly, barely able to string the words together. Her voice is slurred. She is lucky she can still speak German, and is not slipping into English.

Bohm sits with his back against a tree. His long limbs are limp and unmoving, and he stares blankly ahead. Tears silently roll down his cheeks, and when Beatrice meets his eyes, they are red and puffy. A lock of grey hair falls over his forehead. An officer puts a hand on his shoulder only to have it shrugged away.

Across the park, Beatrice sees Katrin practically running towards the scene with her sister on her heels. The officer who has just tried to comfort Bohm rushes to stop her before she can see the body, but it is too late. Beatrice winces as Katrin’s eyes land on her drowned daughter. They well up with tears instantaneously, flashing in the light as she drops to her knees. She screams into the night, clutching her hair. Bohm hangs his head at the sound of it, and Beatrice can hear his sobs. Harsh, dry, wracking sobs that take control of his whole body.

The funeral is scheduled for three days later. Beatrice wakes up that morning and cannot move. She lays completely still, unfeeling and unknowing. It is not until Albert knocks on her door, gently prying it open, and sits on the edge of her bed that she stirs.

“Stupid question,” he says quietly. “But how do you feel?”

Beatrice shakes her head. “Not stupid.”

“Why not?” says Albert. “You’ve just lost one of your friends.”

It does not feel that way. Beatrice has expected to grieve for Rosalind. But it is as if some part of her has suddenly been unlocked in the wake of her death. Because, in all honesty, Rosalind was a Nazi. Maybe she had not carried a gun. Maybe she did not issue orders. Maybe she did not kill Allies and innocent people. But she worshipped the ideology. She accepted that her role in their world was to marry and have as many children as she could. She had supported her father and brother’s careers in the military, and she had cursed the Jews and the Russians along with every other German citizen. She had saluted, and cheered, and cried Sieg Heil to the wind as loud as her lungs could possibly allow for. Beatrice came to that realisation only hours after her death. It was not a friendship. Rosalind was someone to laugh with, travel with, drink with. But could Beatrice cry on her shoulder? Could she be herself around her? Could she really, truly love her as a real friend might have?

No. She accepts that Rosalind is dead. But she was not her friend. Rosalind is a Nazi.

Was a Nazi.

When Beatrice relays this to Albert, he sighs in relief. Finally, after two years, she is seeing it from his point of view. How easy it is to see the world when you are not immersed in it. How quick we are to judge when we are not impacted by it.

Beatrice dresses in her darkest clothes. The funeral is at noon, but at nine the phone rings. It is Konrad that answers. He comes upstairs a minute later to convey the message.

“That was Bohm,” he says. “They’d like for you to help get the children ready.”

Rather than walk, Konrad drops Beatrice off in the car. When she knocks on Bohm’s front door, she is surprised to see Peter answer it.

“Johannes was given the week off,” Peter explains as they walk to the nursery. “Alexander is struggling with looking after four other people, let alone himself. Poor man.”

“What about you?” says Beatrice.

“Holding up better than the rest of the family it seems,” he says. “But…grieving isn’t an easy thing to explain.”

“I know,” says Beatrice. “You’d think that after thousands of years of suffering we’d get used to it.”

“Emotional strength is not inheritable,” says Peter. “We’ll never get used to it.”

The two children seem blissfully unaware of their mother’s sudden absence. Wilhelm at least can understand that the people who look after him are not what they usually are; they cannot smile, and he becomes quiet. As Beatrice slips his tiny shoes onto his feet, he offers out his plush toy dog to her.

“Sad.” he says simply. “Hu…hug.”

Beatrice wraps him up in her arms. Sweet, innocent Wilhelm, who cannot understand what is happening, who will never truly know either of his parents. He is no Nazi. He can barely speak, barely think, barely know.

Beatrice carefully leads Wilhelm into the sitting by one hand, and holds little Sofie in the crook of her other arm. She sees Johannes in his uniform, with his legs up against his chest, his uncle’s arm around his shoulders. He looks away as she nears; his eyes are red.

“Here, I’ll take them,” says Peter, reaching out his arms for the children. “Alexander’s trying to help Katrin put on her make-up. He’s fighting a losing battle.”

“I don’t know where their bedroom is.”

“Johannes?” says Peter softly. “Go on, you haven’t moved for a while.”

Johannes nods weakly, and sniffles. Beatrice holds out an arm, and he leans against her for support. He doesn’t say a word as he shows her the way. Two flights of stairs. A long corridor. He knocks on the last door, and Bohm opens it.

“Do you need help?” Beatrice mouths. She’s spotted the grieving mother at the vanity across the room, her eyes blank. Bohm nods and ushers her inside. Before Johannes can walk away, Bohm kisses the top of his head.

“I’ll be downstairs in a minute,” he says. Johannes nods, and tucks his hands into his pockets as the door closes.

Beatrice is tentative as she walks towards Katrin. She does not want to say or do anything to upset her. Even if Katrin is the wife of a Nazi, even if this family is steeped in the ideology, they are in mourning. It was not their fault. The war claims just as many lives and causes just as much grief on both sides. Beatrice has understanding enough to respect that. So she works in silence. She gently dabs powder against Katrin’s cheeks, blending it out below her jaw and behind her ears. She applies pale copper eyeshadow above her eyelids, and the faintest hint of mascara. Last, pink lipstick, just dark enough to be visible.

Katrin does not move an inch during any of this, not unless Beatrice carefully instructs her too. Bohm sits on the edge of the bed, watching quietly. Remembering, taking mental notes, Beatrice thinks, in case he needs to help her himself.

“All done,” says Beatrice. Katrin still does not move.

“Thank you, Magdalen,” says Bohm. “We’ll just be a moment.”

Beatrice quietly shuts the bedroom door behind her.

They stand in neat rows in the cemetery. Konrad on Beatrice’s left. Peter and Sofie on her right. Wilhelm in her arms. As Rosalind’s coffin is lowered into its grave, Bohm places a bouquet of white and pink flowers atop the dark, smooth wood. Attached is a Cross of Honour of the German Mother. It gleams golden in the sunlight, blinding Beatrice.

Prior to the burial, the doctors removed the baby from Rosalind’s stomach. They find that the child was another girl, frozen and lifeless in the womb. They ask Beatrice, as godmother, to name the child. Bohm tells her that Rosalind had planned to call her Charlotte Johanna. That is the named marked in the gravestone, just below Rosalind Katrin Muller. And just beside her, devoid of the body that is yet to be retrieved, is Dietrich’s final resting place.

Beatrice looks across the row to where Bohm and Katrin stand. Katrin clutches her husband’s arm, her face pressed into his shoulder, and her shoulders shaking. Silent tears roll down the generals hollow cheeks as he stares straight ahead. Johannes is silent, a shell of himself.

That afternoon, the guests congregate at Rosalind and Dietrich’s house. Beatrice moves through the crowd, offering and taking consolation where it seems necessary. There are a hundred people in this house, but never has it felt so empty. Beatrice can tell herself over and over again that there is no point in grieving, but that does not change the fact that someone close to her has died. When a person dies, no matter the happiness of the relationship between two people, you feel their death. It hits you all the same. That is the way of the world.

Beatrice sees Johannes on the back stairs, alone, with his head in his hands. He is as brainwashed as his sister was, devout to Nazism until death. But he is one of two people here that Beatrice genuinely feels pain for. She steps outside, the warm sun on her skin a mockery to the occasion. Johannes does not register her presence, even as she sits down beside him and rests her head on his shoulder. Then, very slowly, he takes her hand.

“When your parents died,” he murmurs in a strained voice. “What did you do?”

It is difficult for Beatrice to imagine a world without her mother in it. A world without her father is not so harsh though; you cannot miss something you never had. Apart from him, Beatrice has never gone through grief, true grief. But Magdalen did, however young she might have been. Beatrice searches for the right words. For a life raft of words that Johannes can cling to in the hope of being saved.

“I was only young when they died,” she says softly. “I understood what death is, but it took me weeks to realise that I was never going to see them again. It’s…it’s a burdening feeling. At first. You long for what life used to be before. You’ll want to talk to her, see her. Be with her. And then you’ll remember that she’s gone, and you can’t.

Johannes sniffles. “It just won’t stop hurting?”

Beatrice sighs. How best to delicately phrase this without further hurting the poor boy?

“It…it lessens,” she says. “It doesn’t feel like it now, but months will pass, and you’ll begin to have days where you almost feel like yourself again. Life will start to feel normal again. There will be days where you wake up and it’s as if the weight of the whole world is on top of your chest. But those moments are temporary. You learn that they happen, and you learn that you are allowed to wallow. And you also learn to live with it. Even if that means changing how you deal with the world, it does change.”

She wraps an arm around his shoulders as he leans forward, and tears begin to drip down his face. He careens into her, openly sobbing, as Beatrice clutches his hand and gently rocks from side to side.

“It gets better,” she thinks. “It can only get better.”


	19. Corpses Calling

It does not get better.

Two days after the funeral, Johannes is called back into service, ready to fly out with the Luftwaffe to North Africa. He tells her quietly that his mother begged him on her knees not to go. That she has stopped eating, stopped sleeping, stopped talking. To her, she is losing both of her children all at once.

He tells her that he has only seen his father twice since the funeral. When he is not at his office, he shuts himself up in his study at home. Johannes thinks that he has been sleeping in there, if only to give Katrin some peace.

He tells her that he regrets joining the Luftwaffe. But it is too late to leave now. He would be shamed, ridiculed, a pariah in the streets. Not even his father’s influence could save him.

For the next week, Rosalind’s death is all the newspapers can talk about. They do not paint a story of suicide in the moments of grief and terror, but rather of a simple accident. They claim that after Rosalind read of Dietrich’s death, she took a short stroll through the Tiergarten to calm herself before returning to life as normal. But during the stroll, she slipped and fell through a gap in the railing. A worker is fired to back up the story. The photographs have managed to capture one photo deemed acceptable by the propaganda ministry. One impossible photo. It is of Bohm, tearless but grieving, with Katrin clinging to him and silently crying. Johannes stands beside them in his proud Luftwaffe uniform. The photograph is powerful, emotional, and most of all, dignified. It holds the attention of Germany as hundreds upon hundreds of condolences pour in.

The papers are lying. The family is falling apart at the seams. Johannes is in North Africa. Katrin is in mourning. And Bohm does not seem to exist at all. The care of the children is left to Beatrice, Peter, and Katrin’s sister Marta.

Beatrice is not encumbered by this death, but rather the role she takes on in its wake. She sleeps for only a few hours at a time, spends most of her waking hours either working or caring for the children, and can hardly walk in a straight line. More than once, she falls asleep with Wilhelm in her lap, a picture book still half open.

She begins to find ways to escape from it all. Claudette. It seems that with the blow of a death comes the added sensitivity to emotion. Beatrice nearly bursts into a smile when Claudette’s hand brushes hers on the stairs. She shivers when she hears her singing faintly in her room, mixing paints until they are perfect. And she blushes at the feeling of her soft lips on her own. There is a quiet afternoon one day where they paint together, and Claudette accidentally smears paint in Beatrice’s pale blonde hair. They clutch their stomachs, barely able to breath at the sight of it. The paint does not wash out for two days, and every time their eyes meet for more than three seconds, they fall over themselves with laughter.

“It just looks so stupid!” Claudette giggles. “It’s bright green!”

Two weeks after the funeral, Beatrice is stepping off of the train after a hazy day at work. Yet another secretary has lost her own husband to the war, meaning that the office is down to four people. The work piles up, so much so that they have given up and are sent home early. Nobody can focus. Beatrice’s eyes are too heavy to keep fully open, and that is how she slams into Bohm’s chest at the station. Instinctively, he grabs her arm.

He has not eaten; his gaunt frame has become even more haggard. His grey eyes hold no emotion, not even pain. His shoulders are slumped. The fingers that Beatrice can feel around her forearm are thinner and bonier than they once were, but his grip is not as sharp. His nails have been chewed down to the beds. He does not recognise who has run into him for a moment, until he stares pointedly at her. His face does not change, but a dark and vicious haze is drawn over his eyes. Beatrice does not know whether to stay or go.

“You don’t have enough evidence,” he says. “They’ll never believe you.”

Beatrice frowns; his words do not make sense. But something in the back of her mind screams for her to run, as if it knows what she does not.

“What are you talking about?” she says.

“What do you matter?” he says. “I have no reason to spare you.”

He speaks as if in a trance. Monotone, flat, and unwavering from emotion. He does not elaborate or even scowl at Beatrice. This is not Alexander Bohm. This is not a general. This is not even a grand duke. This is an empty man with thoughts of little more than his lost daughter, and the threat that she kept at bay.

“Time’s up, Miss Baumann,” he says.

Lazily, almost lethargically, he lets go of her arm and stalks away. Beatrice watches his back as he dissolves into the crowd, only his peaked cap visible above the rest of the world. Once he disappears around a corner, she wastes no time in rushing up the stairs and heading straight for home.

She throws the front door open, sending poor Shoshana skittering across the floor and hissing. Konrad curses as the cat leaps into his lap, claws digging in. He glowers at Beatrice, the disturber of peace. Albert frowns; it is rare that he sees Beatrice in such a state.

“What the hell is wrong with you, woman?” says Konrad. “Didn’t your mother teach you how to politely enter a room?”

“He’s going to arrest us,” Beatrice says between breaths. “Bohm. Saw him at the U-Bahn station. Need to leave. Right now.”

Konrad and Albert share a poignant glance. Panic flits between them, a signal of Morse code, alarming the other that this is no drill. This is real.

“Pack your trunks,” says Konrad. “Necessities only.”

They leap into action. Albert sprints up the stairs, shouting at the top of his lungs for Claudette. Konrad rustles through the pantry, tugging out the picnic basket, and begins to stack food inside. Beatrice digs through the drawers next to the fridge. Money, purse, ID papers, car keys.

“Go collect your things, Eugen,” says Beatrice. “I can pack my trunk quicker than you can.”

Konrad nods in understanding, and runs for his bedroom. Beatrice is grateful for her stringent role in the military. It becomes second nature to pack quickly, and unemotionally.

Beatrice stuffs everything into her handbag and sits it beside the picnic basket. She thinks quickly, and fills two large canteens with water. Those, along with the first aid kid go into the basket.

She dashes into the laundry and retrieves the largest crate she can find. She drops Shoshana inside atop a blanket, along with slices of rolled ham and a bundle of newspapers. That will have to do; they have no carrier. With everything downstairs settled, she runs to her room. Along the way, she passes the other three, still stuffing belongings inside as they run.

“Food, money, and Shoshana are packed,” she calls. “Start loading the car, I’ll be five minutes at most.”

As soon as she reaches her bedroom, Beatrice drops to her knees and pulls her trunk out from under her bed. She flips it open and shoves in as much as she can. Jumpers, blouses, skirts, her last pair of good tights, Oxford flats, and her sun hat. She puts the photographs she stole from Bohm’s office in her pocket. She slips her trench coat around her shoulders, and dashes into the bathroom. As she reaches for her toothpaste, she hears the car engine start outside. Heart racing, she spares a moment to glance out of the window.

She curses.

Albert and Claudette are in the backseat, boxes and trunks on their laps, barely visible. Konrad is half out of the car and staring pleadingly at Beatrice’s window. She slides it open, gaining his attention. Silently, he puts a finger to his lips, and points towards the end of the street. Beatrice stops moving, and listens.

Trucks. Heavy engines, rarely seen on these residential streets. Only seconds away from turning the corner and seeing Konrad’s car ready to flee.

Beatrice won’t make it downstairs in time, even if she weren’t carrying her trunk. She could make it to the car, yes, but then the trucks would see them and give chase. They’d never make it out of Charlottenburg. She makes a split second decision.

“Go!” she calls. “All three of you, go!”

Konrad puts a hand to his chest. He looks back into the car, where Albert is shouting something at him that Beatrice cannot hear. All three of them look up to the bathroom window.

“Go!” she shouts. “Now!”

Konrad curses. He holds up one finger, mouthing two words. One hour.

He closes the car door, and pulls out onto the road. Beatrice flinches as she sees Albert throwing his hands up into the air, as Claudette lays a gentle hand on his arm.

They disappear around the corner, just as the trucks turn onto the street.

Beatrice leaps over her trunk, skipping three stairs at a time. She jumps into the kitchen and flips the lock on the front door, shoving the couch in front of it for good measure. She pulls a knife from the kitchen, the smallest she can find, and tucks it inside of her shoe, the blade flat so that it does not pierce her. She may escape this house, but there is no telling what she may need to do on the road. There is nowhere to hide out there.

Her attempts at defence will not stop the soldiers. But it will give her time to think of a place to hide. She has one hour, starting now.

Gravel crackles as the trucks pull up, and their engines grumble to a halt. Beatrice does not see this though, because she is already on the first landing. But she hears it, and she hears jarring voices and the ramming of thick shoulders against the door. The couch shifts; she is on the second landing.

The door bursts open. Her defence was far shorter lived than she had hoped for. But it does not matter, because she knows her hiding place. Her feet thud against the wood, sending dust spiralling and disturbed from where it has lain for decades. She reaches the attic.

Soldiers footsteps thundering somewhere below. Beatrice moves as fast as she can. Her heart races. Her head pounds. She prays that Konrad never remembered to lock Mieke’s door. Beatrice tries the handle, and sighs in relief as it creaks open. She closes it quickly, and turns the latch on the inside. And not a moment too soon. Seconds later, a barrage of fists rains down on the door, shaking and rattling it on its hinges. Beatrice’s trembling fingers fumble at the latch of the window, nails clicking against the window. The door rattles against the frame; a shout becomes clearer as the crack begins to widen. Please unlock, please, please, please—

She throws the window open, and iron hands haul her back into the room.

Beatrice hits the dusty ground with a grunt; the air is knocked from her lungs. White flowers dance at the edge of her greying vison. They blossom and twist and explode in front of her eyes, hiding the faces of the soldiers who pull her to her feet. She writhes and shouts, but her hands are cuffed behind her, metal encircled until it is as tight as can be. Her feet cannot find traction on the ground as she is pulled along. Her knees slam into every stair. Without any sort of grace or dignity, they drag her outside and toss her into the back of a truck. A soldier sits with his foot pressed against her shoulder blades, another foot pinning her calf down.

“Get your fucking feet off of me,” she spits. “I’m not an ottoman.”

An officer wrenches her head back, twisting her back painfully. “Shut it,” he snarls. He grimaces as Beatrice spits in his face.

“Braun, give me a handkerchief or something, would you?” he says, eyes closed as spit drips between them. Beatrice thinks that he is going to wipe his face with it, until he seizes her jaw and forces the cloth between her teeth. Another soldier ties it behind her head.

“Saint fucking Peter, I’m going to die, I’m going to die, they’re going to shoot me, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—”

They drive through the city without anything of consequence. Beatrice can barely move let alone claw her way out. They pass no one, and even if they did, who would have the audacity to stand up to the soldiers? Hell, who would even think that the girl being detained is innocent to begin with? To everyone else, Beatrice is no more than a civilian, an unlawful German. Probably a Jew. Or God forbid, a Slav. They do not know that she was never meant to be here, that this awful pantomime was never meant to play out.

As they drive, two of the soldiers swap jokes. Crude, disgusting jokes, and Beatrice tries to understand how a person can be so candid and disgusting, and so oblivious to the person they are pinning to floor.

Beatrice sees Bohm’s office loom through the shadows, just over a soldiers shoulder. She winces as the truck jolts to a stop, and she is pulled to her feet again. Her legs pinch and slice against the rough concrete; they still do not allow her to walk. Then as they enter the office, they sting against the tiles. The irony of it is almost enough to be amusing. Every time she has walked through here, the sound of her high heels has been the alarm that has given her presence away. But now, with the quietest feet in the building, she has been caught.

A soldier knocks against Bohm’s door. This cannot be a spontaneous plan, it must have been so meticulous, because there Beatrice has never heard of Bohm staying at work until nine o’clock before. But here he is, regardless, sitting behind his desk as if his chair is a throne. The wheels in his head must be broken, because he is sitting with his feet on the table, ankles crossed over. He holds a burning cigarette between his fingers. He never smokes at work. And he never puts his feet on the table. He watches the spectacle in front of him with narrowed eyes and a set jaw. The office is dark, lit only by the growing slats of moonlight through the lattice windows. It is like that night in France all over again. Bohm’s face in shadow, almost invisible. Now Beatrice knows why she did not recognise him when she met him at the office all those years ago.

Rather than shoving her into the chair in front of Bohm’s desk, the soldiers shove Beatrice to the ground in the middle of the room. One of them marches over to Bohm and deposits something small, the key to the handcuffs, onto his desk. As they lock and close the door, Bohm tilts his head, looking at her as if she were some specimen in a laboratory. Curious. Rare. New and interesting, ready to be cut open and studied.

“Good of you to come and see me at such a late hour,” he says. “I hope you weren’t busy.”

Beatrice stares fiercely at the ground. What does he expect her to do, speak through the gag? Of course he does not. She knows better than to do anything to cause him amusement. A difficult task, given that the entire situation is amusing to him.

Bohm swings his feet off of the table, and slowly begins to pace around his desk. As he moves, reaches for something that Beatrice cannot see. He steps into the light, and she sees what it is. Glinting and sparkling, thin enough to be elegant, but not enough to be dainty. A sword.

“I used to fence you know,” he says. “I was required to learn as a grand duke, having no real stately lessons to study. I hated most sports as a child, save for fencing and cricket. After we moved to Germany, I convinced my father to let me continue. I loved it to pieces. Until, of course, Peter wanted to learn. Seven years younger, and he had me bested by the time I was twenty.”

He saunters towards Beatrice. Each time his toes touch the ground, the soft sound is like a gun going off beside her head. Each time his shadow edges towards her just that little bit more, Beatrice sinks further and further beneath the waves.

The tip of the sword presses underneath her chin. Beatrice turns her face up to Bohm but does not look him in the eyes.

“But still,” he says. “One could assume that I still know what I’m doing.”

He flicks the sword away, making Beatrice flinch. A noise rises in his throat as if he is about to laugh, but he stops himself. Beatrice grimaces as he kneels down in front of her, and delicately pulls the cloth away from her mouth. She cannot avoid looking him in the eyes now.

“I waited too long for this moment,” he says. “I should’ve shot you when I had the chance. But instead, I became emotionally invested. Allowed myself to fall victim to sympathy. I put my wants over the good of my country and pretended that arresting you was not necessary. Look at where that’s gotten us.”

For the first time in weeks, Bohm smiles. It is a cold look, with no warmth, no compassion, no mercy for the young girl in front of him.

“Waiting so long does give me one advantage,” he says. “Revenge is like a fine wine. It tastes better the longer you let it sit.”

He runs the sword along the edge of Beatrice’s face and flicks her glasses away. They clatter against the tiles, and the world goes blurry around the edges. Beatrice images every possible way Bohm could kill her with this sword. He removed her glasses with the blade barely touching her skin. What he might do to her with far more dangerous intentions in mind, she shudders to think. Slit her throat. Pluck out her eyes. Slash open her stomach. Her mind is a mathematic one, that of an engineer, and her calculations seldom fail her. She knows that they are not failing her now. Her chances of survival diminish by the second.

The proud smile falls from Bohm’s face; her chances plummet. The soft tone of his voice disintegrates, replaced by a harsh, demanding tone that Beatrice has heard from him only once before. The voice of a general. A grand duke. A Russian. She realises that it is not just anger and power in his voice, it is his accent seeping through. Rolling r’s, soft e’s, and inflections placed upon words so randomly, it becomes even more difficult for Beatrice to know what he means. Is that sarcasm or scathing? Laughter, or loathing? There is no denying his hatred as he leans closer. Beatrice suddenly wishes the cloth was in her mouth again, as memories of Katrin’s birthday party come flooding back. She tries to edge back until her hands clutch her shoes, but where has she to go? Nowhere.

“You are going to answer everything that I ask of you,” he says. “I will spare you the ceremony of a trial and simply execute you here. I will carve you into pieces and watch as you bleed out. Starting—”

He presses the sword to her cheek. “—with your pretty face.”

The sword whips through the air, and Beatrice drops to the floor. She is not fast enough. The tip of the sword runs along her forehead, opening a thin gash that stings more than anything else. Blood runs down her cheek, dripping onto the polished tiles. She tries to wriggle backwards, but Bohm kneels over her. His knees pin her legs together.

Touching another person’s face is an intimate thing. A kiss is an intimate thing. But to have a man kneeling over you, his body almost entirely pushed against your own, is an action so intense, it becomes painful. It is vulnerable and unescapable.

“I want your name,” Bohm says slowly. Powerfully. His breathing is even. “Your real name. And if you’re feeling particularly generous, your rank wouldn’t hurt either.”

Beatrice screws up her face in panic. Can she really give her name up to him so easily? After two years of hiding, lying, keeping secrets, going behind one another’s backs, can she honestly bring herself to give it all up because of some pathetic fencing sword only inches away, ready to slash her open at the drop of a hat?

But the game is finished, isn’t it? There can be no return from this encounter. Today is so very different from that day that Bohm almost plunged a knife into her skull. There were consequences to his actions then. There aren’t now.

Doesn’t Beatrice want this to end? The others are already out of Berlin. Bohm is right. Time’s up.

So she takes a deep breath. And she ends it.

“Beatrice Wilson,” she says. “MI6 operational officer, and Section Leader for the ATS; engineer. Squadron 101.”

Bohm looks her up and down. It is as if, for the first time, he is truly realising what she is. Who she is. A spy. Here is her confession, presented to him on a neat platter of fear and coercion. Beatrice sees the slight narrowing of his eyes at the concept of her being an engineer. Engineers seldom make for good spies.

“Beatrice,” Bohm rolls her name off of his tongue, making her shudder. The thicker accent that he has now but all completely slipped into does not soften matters.

“You’re an engineer,” he says. “How old?”

“Twenty.”

Bohm’s proud stare twitches as he does the maths. His hand wobbles.

“You were eighteen when we met in France,” he says. “Weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Is that a hint of guilt behind his eyes? Is his conscience berating him for the wrong-doings he has committed against a girl barely out of the classroom? Beatrice thinks not, because he has never shown remorse before. And now, as he is preparing to kill her, does not feel the appropriate time to begin.

“You’re a child,” he says. “Just like every other soldier on the front lines. My regard for you is not made any more sympathetic by your age Miss Bau…Miss Wilson.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less of you,” says Beatrice.

Bohm’s top lip curls back. His entire body pushes against her, deliberately intended to hurt her. Her wrists, still restrained by cuffs, are pinched and pulled against. She winces as the metal digs into the divot between bone and palm.

“MI6 sent you here in 1940,” says Bohm. “Just after your army evacuated from France, and the capitulation. Why?”

He needs only to tap the sword against the ground to coax an answer from her.

“Our army had no troops in Europe,” she says. Her voice is strained, choked by fear and loss of breath. “They needed information from the inside so that they could at least have a grasp of what’s happening. They needed someone who wouldn’t draw any attention, and wouldn’t be a liability if something were to go wrong. Someone…expendable.”

The words hurt. But they are true all the same, and Bohm can see the pain in her eyes as clear as day. He understands MI6’s decision. Who would ever suspect a young girl in Germany, a girl who bore the appearance of the perfect Aryan? It does not matter that she is untrained. In fact, it is an advantage. She holds no state secrets, no position of power, and her death will not result in the exploitation of foreign intelligence. The least she has to do is keep her head down and her eyes sharp.

“Do you have a mission?” Bohm asks. “Or were you simply sent to wander here until somebody caught you out?”

“To wander,” says Beatrice. “MI6 had no leads. No missions to send their properly trained people into. They wanted me to be a messenger, a forerunner, so that they could send out more experienced spies to do their jobs properly.”

“A scout,” says Bohm. “Left to die alone. Poor thing.”

Beatrice stabs him in the stomach.

Blood spurts, and Bohm howls in pain as Beatrice tugs the knife out. The angle is awkward, and was a gamble to try, but it has paid off. Bohm falls onto his back with a grunt. He throws up his arms as Beatrice jabs her foot, straight into his nose. Another fountain of crimson, and his head hits the ground. Beatrice rushes to his side, and with her back to him, fumbles through his pocket for the key to her handcuffs. This would be so much easier if she could see what she was doing…

A tiny sliver of metal brushes her fingers. She pinches it and takes it out. She is aware of Bohm groaning and stirring back to life, but she cannot allow fear to panic her movements. With the skill and dexterity that years of training bought her, she slips the key into the lock and twists it open.

Beatrice launches forward as Bohm sits up. His fingernails scrabble against the bottom of her shoes, missing her ankle by inches. She jumps to her feet and backs towards the door, fully aware that it is still locked.

Bohm groans and wipes at the steady flow of blood running down his face. “Would it be too much to ask,” he spits. “To stop breaking my nose?”

“Give me the key.” Beatrice says.

“And where the hell did you get a knife from?” says Bohm. He clutches his stomach, which only provides a thin trickle of blood. “Thank God you’ve only cut me, and not touched an organ.”

“Give me the key,” Beatrice repeats. “Now.”

He holds out his hands. “I don’t have it,”

“Oh, stop fucking about with me, and hand it over,” she snarls. “It’s not that bloody difficult.”

She is running out of time. Bohm climbs to his feet, and the bleeding from his nose is slowly coming to a stop. It stains his jaw and his chin, but the pain is not so terrible that it stops him from reaching for his gun.

Until he finds that it is not there.

Beatrice very nearly grins as she holds it up for him to see. “You have a very bad habit of letting me get a hold of your weapons, Alexander.”

He snarls, and snatches up the fencing sword. But a bullet moves much faster than a man. Beatrice raises the gun, aiming it at his chest. Her hand wobbles.

“Key,” she says. “Now.”

Bohm is daring her to shoot him as he edges forward. The spool of bravery within Beatrice is unwinding with every step, and she begs herself to pull the trigger. But she can’t. She can’t do it. Instead, she circles around until they stand parallel to the door on opposite sides of the room.

And the door opens.

Bohm’s face splits into a pencil thin smile as the newcomer enters. It isn’t his adjutant. It isn’t a soldier. It is a blonde, skeletal man in a wheelchair. His clothes are loose and ragged, and his cheeks are as hollow and high as Bohm’s.

Beatrice knows that face. The last time she saw it, it was lying in the dirt, bloodstained and bruised, in the middle of the French countryside. It is impossible for him to be here.

But his features haunted her for weeks after the attack. She cannot forget them, not matter how hard she tries.

“Mikhail?”


	20. Fools

Mikhail smiles grimly. He wheels himself into the room and shuts the door. Beatrice keeps the gun trained on Bohm as he turns himself back around. She spots a weapon of his own through his belt, though he has not reached for it yet.  
“Do you like the wheelchair?” says Mikhail, running his hands over the wheels. “They make it much easier to get around, but I suppose I would prefer being able to actually walk.”  
His words echo in Beatrice’s ears. The words of a dead man. A man that should have bled to death in France, a man that took at least two bullets in his back, a man that died helping Beatrice escape and failed.  
This is not possible.  
Mikhail rests his hand on his chin and looks over at Bohm. “I was under the impression that she was brought here cuffed and gagged.”  
“She’s a clever little thing,” says Bohm. “She had a knife hidden somewhere and stabbed me in the stomach.”  
Mikhail’s eyes flick to the red patch on Bohm’s uniform. “Ah. So she did.”  
Beatrice takes a deep breath. “Mikhail, I thought you were dead. They shot you. You were dying.”  
“Yes, dying, but not dead,” says Mikhail. “Luckily for me, Alexander’s injury was only a flesh wound, and we were able to make it back to the tank and drive to Laon for medical treatment. He escaped with nothing more than an impressive scar. I however have been paralysed from the waist down,”  
“A mistake on the part of my men,” says Bohm. “All of whom were ordered not to fire beforehand. I was going to have them all court martialled for disobeying orders, but fortunately Miss Wilson, you were kind enough to dispose of them yourself.”  
Beatrice cannot comprehend what she is hearing. There appears to be an undeniably amicability between the two men. But why?   
“I don’t understand,” she says. “You’re…here? In Berlin?”  
Mikhail chuckles. “Ah, she doesn’t get it. It still hasn’t occurred to you, has it Beatrice? How the Germans found us in France? Who the rat was?”  
He puffs out his chest proudly. Every other confounding secret that Beatrice has uncovered in her two years here, the good and the bad, pales in comparison to this. Beatrice’s blood turns to ice in her veins, creeping and sneaking up all the way to her heart, which stops itself from beating. He was the rat.  
Beatrice has to remind herself to keep her gun trained on Bohm, who is still the more dangerous of the two.  
“You’re working for him,” says breathes. “You set me up, knowing that I would be killed, you bastard!”  
“The things we do for family,” says Mikhail. Then, with a mocking smile, he says. “Oops. Did I say too much?”  
The twists keep coming, faster and ever more incoherent. The word family is slow to sink into Beatrice’s mind, and even slower to make the connection. Mikhail’s voice from the night in France comes back to her, muffled and distant. A word from the dictionary Beatrice studied only days ago.  
“Prosti dyadya,” she whispers. “Dyadya…”  
Dyadya. She knows that word.  
As if he knows what she’s thinking, Mikhail answers with a small chuckle.  
“He’s my uncle.”  
Beatrice’s confusion quickly turns to fury. Inextinguishable, disgusted fury. Her eyes flare, her fingers clench, and she resists the temptation to pull the trigger. Uncle?   
Bohm hates Stefan. Beatrice doubts he would ever work so closely with his son. And Peter has three daughters, no boys at all. Mikhail is not his child.  
“You’re Anastasia’s son,” she says. “Aren’t you?”  
Bohm’s face turns withdrawn and pale red in the cheeks as Mikhail’s jaw slowly parts, and his hands clench around his armrests.  
“How do you know about my mother?” he says.  
“I know everything,” she says. “Don’t I, Alexander?”  
Bohm inhales sharply, his sword hand dropping for only a moment. “After you forced me to talk, yes. You know far more than I am comfortable with.”  
“Like what?” Mikhail splutters. His words falter; he is unsure. “Alexander, how much does she know?”  
“I know that your mother and both of your uncles were born into Russian nobility,” Beatrice interjects. “I know that they were Grand Dukes and Duchess until Alexander’s parents divorced and the boys were moved to Germany. I know that your mother stayed in Russia, and I know that she hasn’t spoken to Alexander in almost fifty years.”  
And there is the anger that she has been waiting for. The hands of both men are coiling now, whitening and tightening at the knuckles, but neither dare to move forwards. Not when Beatrice still has the gun levelled at Bohm’s chest.  
“Which begs the questions,” she says. “Why are you in Germany helping your estranged uncle?”  
Mikhail does not answer. His eyes, wide with uncertainty, dart between Beatrice and Alexander. He does not know where to begin. What to say. But Beatrice wants an answer. She expects one.  
“Well?”  
“I…chose to leave,” Mikhail says, forcing the words joltingly. “Do you have any idea what it’s like in the Soviet Union? It’s a hellhole. They promised us equality and freedom, and instead we have poverty and death. And my whore of mother supported it all. She told me that communism was the best, the only way, for our country to move away from the war years and become a global superpower. But I couldn’t understand how a country that murders its own people and sends them to camps could ever become a superpower.”  
“And you thought you could find that superpower in fascism?” says Beatrice. “In a country that, rather ironically, murders its own people and sends them to camps.”  
“Jews are not people,” says Mikhail. “They are inferior—”  
“So the Nazis say,” says Beatrice. “The Nazis also say that Russians, such as yourselves, are inferior. But if they had any idea who Alexander is, and who you are, you would be sent to a camp yourself, and killed before you could even get off the train.”  
Mikhail pulls out his gun and points it straight at Beatrice’s chest. She takes a step back, but Bohm puts out his arm.  
“Yeshche net,” he says. “Po moyemu signalu.”  
“Ya tozhe govoryu po-russki, Aleksandr,” says Beatrice. “Syurpriz.”  
Bohm lowers his shaking arm. “Of course you speak Russian,” he mutters to himself.   
Beatrice’s hand shakes more than ever now. Escape is slipping further and further away. Beatrice can fear her throat growing tighter, tears prickling behind her eyes. She knows she is lucky to still be holding he gun.  
“Of course,” she whispers. “I learnt Russian because I had to. To survive this moment. Because I knew that when the endgame would come, I would be unprepared. I didn’t chose to be here Alexander. I’m barely an adult, let alone a spy. All of this—”  
She quickly gestures around the chaotic room with the gun. “—I don’t know how to cope with this. MI6 and I aren’t on the same page. We’re not in the same library. We’re not even in the same fucking language anymore. I don’t want this, Alexander!”  
It almost looks as if Bohm is going to oblige her and let her out. Then Beatrice reminds herself that mercy is seldom a quality that this man utilises. And she knows that her chances of survival have slimmed down even more.  
Bohm runs his thumb over his wedding ring. “Do you think I enjoy this? War?”  
“You’ve been the head of the Panzer Division since Germany began to build it up behind everyone’s backs,” she says. “You’ve been in the army since the first war. Everything that you are is because of war.”  
Bohm grinds his teeth “Mikhail, zmieniłem zdanie.” he says. “Zastrzel ją, ale nie zabijaj jej.”  
That’s not Russian. It’s Polish…  
Two guns fire, one only moments before the other.  
Beatrice hits the ground.  
She breathes in to the count of five. Holds it. Breathes out again. In, hold out. Then slowly, she opens her eyes to survey the scene in front of her.   
Mikhail lays slumped in his wheelchair with his head tipped back. His throat is exposed, showing off the gaping red hole in its centre.. Blood trickles down his neck, dripping down his chest, staining his shirt. It brings vomit to Beatrice’s mouth.   
“Holy shit,” she whispers. Her head is spinning. She looks at Bohm, who is paralysed with his hand in his hair. He slowly turns to look at her, every inch of his movements edged with the intent to maim. Or worse.  
“You killed him.”  
Beatrice makes the split second decision to pull the trigger.  
The sword clatters to the ground as Bohm screams. Blood spurts from his leg and he falls onto the tiles. He wraps his hands around the wound, cursing in a string of guttural Russian and German.  
“You’re lucky that I didn’t hit anywhere more important,” says Beatrice, her voice trembling. Because, in all honesty, she hadn’t known if the bullet was going to hit him at all.  
“You little bitch,” Bohm groans. “Jesus Christ…”  
Beatrice shakily stands up. The bullet Mikhail fired at her is embedded in the wall behind where her head had been only moments prior. Had she not dropped to the ground, she would’ve died as instantly as him.  
She studies Bohm, who is still very much conscious, albeit bleeding heavily. But the last time she shot him and believed he was dead, he had survived. She cannot run yet. Not before she is sure that she has seen the light leave his eyes, and the last intake of air reach his lungs.  
“What would be quickest?”  
Bohm looks up at her, an expression of utter disgust and confusion written across his features. “Excuse me?”  
“For me to shoot you,” says Beatrice. “Quickly and painlessly.”  
Bohm scoffs. “First you threaten to tell the country that I’m Russian, now you’re taunting me about my impending doom? You’d make a fine Nazi.”  
“I’m not trying to taunt you,” says Beatrice. “And I’d never do anything that even vaguely reflects Nazism. I’ve shot you twice in two years, and you’re still alive. I’m not leaving this room until you’re dead, now tell me what will kill you as painlessly as possible.”  
“Painlessly for me?” says Bohm. “Or painlessly for you?”  
There is no such thing as a painless death for a good person. Taking a life, no matter how removed you are, destroys every honourable bone in your body. You are complicit in another’s end. You can lessen the sting. Use a gun instead of your hands. Suffocation instead of starvation. Effectivity instead of revenge. But it is never painless.  
“Whatever is quickest,” says Beatrice. “I don’t want the soldiers to burst in here and save your life.”  
“No, you’re particularly adverse to saving lives, aren’t you?” Bohm spits. “You couldn’t even fish my daughter out of the Landwehr Canal in time.”  
Beatrice gawks at him, and his hypocritical remarks. “At least I can swim, Alexander!”  
“For all I know, you could’ve had her back on dry land within seconds,” says Bohm. “You were in that canal for almost two minutes. I should’ve jumped in myself.”  
“And drowned, and died,” says Beatrice. “Yes, that would’ve done me a favour. Unfortunately, I don’t think I could dump you in a lake at this very moment, so if you could just tell me—”  
“The chest, you stupid girl!”   
Beatrice recoils. He has never shouted in front of her before, not with such consuming volume. It is like the roar of a dragon. A roll of thunder across ashen clouds. Waves slamming into slate cliffs, tearing away at the gulls that land there.  
Bohm’s ribs heaves with exertion. “The chest,” he pants. “Shoot me in the chest. It isn’t a messy shot like the head. My wife will thank you for a clean corpse.”  
Beatrice raises the gun, and thinks of what she is about to do. Every other death she has caused has been so distant. Almost mistaken in nature. She has not looked into her victim’s eyes as their last moments fade away, as their last breaths are taken.  
Until now.  
Beatrice’s hand is steady when she shoots Bohm in the chest.  
The general falls back. His head lolls to the side, eyes fluttering shut. A patch of red grows over his uniform, just beneath the place where his Iron Cross hangs. His hand twitches, then falls still. He is gone.  
“Dear God in Heaven,” Beatrice thinks. “Forgive me for the life I have taken.”  
Victory is a fleeting thing. Beatrice can hear a symphony of distressed murmurs down the hall, and knows that the guards have heard the gunshots. This is not the place to celebrate; she still needs to escape. She knows that she will not be able to escape through the main halls, or any halls for that matter. She pries open the tall window that overlooks the garden, wincing as the cold wind stings her face. Before she can clamber out of the window and onto the wide boughs of the tree only feet away, a malicious and damning thought crosses her mind. One last blow. One last win against Bohm, even in his death.   
Beatrice takes out the stolen photographs, those of him and his family, the late Tsar, Peter. She rifles through Bohm’s draws and finds an envelope, and leaves the photographs inside. Then, in her slanted, pencil thin handwriting she begins to write a letter.  
Dear Katrin  
Where do I even begin? There is so much that I need to say to you, but so little time to say it. We could be given a lifetime for this discussion, and it would never be enough. But I will try my best.  
I’m sorry. For lying to you about who I am. I am from England, not Germany. I’m sorry for lying to your family, especially to Rosalind, and tricking you all into loving me and caring for me. It was cruel, and I did it to keep myself safe. I realise now, upon leaving, how that will affect you. We are on opposite sides of the war, and even though you are married to one of the most blood-soaked generals in Europe, I know that you are a loving, protective, kind person. Maybe there are aspects of your life that I am opposed to, but I don’t believe them to be wholly your fault. And so I apologise, because I respect you, and for tricking you.  
I’m sorry about Alexander. To lose two people you love so much in such a short span of time, and with Johannes away fighting, is yet another cruelty. I can tell you that I did it in defence, but anyone can see, clear as day, that you loved him more than anything in the world, and could never accept what I have done. That is your decision to make, and your loyalty to swear to. There is a great deal about Alexander that you do not know, and I hope that you take the time to realise all of it.  
Finally, I am begging you, to realise what a crushing place Nazi Germany is. The absolute fear I have seen in some people’s eyes, the pain of losing those closest to them, is unlike anything I have ever seen. You cannot begin to imagine what it is like on the battlefield, and you cannot imagine what it is like to live in the heart of the enemy. I have worked in the propaganda ministry for almost two years now; I know the lies they tell. The Jews are not parasites bent on ruling Europe. The Russians are not dogs who would kill every woman, child, and grandparent in Berlin. And most of your Germans are not the golden, pure, brave heroes that the newspapers claim. I am on my knees Katrin, pleading for you to come to your senses and get out of Germany. Your world as the wife to Germany’s most respected and richest man has ended, take the opportunity to do something good. Please.  
You are living in a world that benefits from other people’s pain. I beg that you change that.   
Beatrice signs her first name at the bottom. Upon reflection, she adds M.H.B in brackets beside it. Katrin will not know who has written it otherwise. She folds up the letter, and stashes it, along with the photographs, inside of the envelope. She leaves it propped up against the family photograph where it will not be missed.  
Rushing back to the window as the voices get closer, Beatrice’s heart begins to thump. All of this work, all of this bloodshed, and she still might not make it out alive. But she hasn’t been caught. Not yet. From the window, it is easy enough to grab onto the nearest branch and climb down the tree. The low stone wall around the garden is just as simple to scale, and Beatrice emerges into a small back alley. Before anyone can realise otherwise, she is on a train bound for home.  
As she is pushing open the front door, she realises that she does not know what to do. She can’t walk along the road and pray that she will run into Konrad. There is no chance that he will be taking the usual routes to get home; he’s too clever for that. She swore a silent promise to hide until he comes back for her. She will stay here. And she will wait.  
Beatrice does not wait downstairs for a car to arrive. She sits in Mieke’s room, hugging her suitcase to her chest, and listening to every tiny sound that invades the house. Furniture settling, a quiet breeze, the clock ticking downstairs, all of it sets her on edge, and makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up straight.  
She looks at the clock. Ten minutes until Konrad gets back.   
Surely someone has found the corpses by now. God, what will Katrin do? The letter is not enough; it will never be enough to explain everything. Her daughter and her husband, both death. Is anyone strong enough to take that blow?  
The clock gets louder and louder until it is all Beatrice can hear. It is like waterboard torture.  
Drip, drip, drip. Tick, tick, tick.  
She forces her eyes open. She walks around in circles, then stands on the edge of the top stair. All she wants is to lie down, but she cannot fall asleep. Not yet. Not now.  
Drip, drip, drip. Tick, tick, tick.  
Beatrice runs her hand along the walls of the attic. These cracked, faded walls that must have been so bright and beautiful once upon a time. She imagines Konrad as a young boy running through here, a toy plane whirling over his head. She imagines him and Mieke leaning out of the window and seeing how far they could get it to fly, only to realise that metal does not soar. She imagines him content. Young. Happy.  
An engine rumbles outside. Fatigue leaves Beatrice’s bones like bathwater swirling down the drain. She races into Claudette’s room to look out onto the street. A single car, and a single figure. Konrad.  
Beatrice races down the stairs, her feet barely touching the ground. She hits the bottom floor and flings the front door open as Konrad moves to unlock it. The two of them very nearly go flying down the front steps as she throws her arms around his shoulders.  
“Oh, fuck!” Konrad groans and grabs the railing. “Careful kleyntshik, you’ll break my ribs. Are you alright? You’ve got a cut on your head.”  
“I’ll explain in the car,” says Beatrice. “Fuck, where’s my trunk?”  
“You dropped it when you dive tackled me down the stairs.”   
They climb into the car, and the engine is back on before Beatrice can even do up her seatbelt. For a moment, Beatrice thinks she can hear sirens in the background. She realises, almost in relief, that they are air raid sirens.  
“This is good,” says Konrad. “Everyone will be too busy in their shelters or aiming their guns at the sky to look out for enemies on the ground.”  
Within half an hour, they are out of the city. Beatrice watches as the tallest of buildings disappear into the early morning fog. She remembers entering the city for the first time so long ago. She is glad to see the back of it.  
“Where are we going, exactly?” says Beatrice. “Switzerland?”   
“That’s where they’ll assume we’re going,” says Konrad. “No, we’re going to Toulouse. Claudette’s family have a house in the country there. It’s big, isolated, and completely empty. The Nazis would think we’re mad if we tried relocating to an occupied country.”  
“Well, that’s because it is mad,” says Beatrice. “And if we get shot, just after…”  
The words stick in her throat, coming out choked and sharp. She grimaces, gulping her fear down.  
“Just after I’ve killed Bohm,” she says. “Then it will have all been in vain.”  
The car is as stiflingly quiet as Bohm’s office was in the moments after his death. Like the air in the room cannot fully understand what it has just seen and heard.  
“You killed Bohm?” Konrad says quietly.  
Beatrice nods, a tiny movement. “Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, he’s dead.”  
She chuckles lightly, barely more than a whisper of a laugh. Hollow, and entirely without amusement. There is nothing funny about killing a man. But there is a relief. Yes, that must be what she is feeling. Relief.  
“I…how?” Konrad stutters. His head whipping between looking at the road, and Beatrice. “There were a dozen men in that truck; you could’ve been killed.”  
“Bohm wasn’t in the house,” says Beatrice. “I…Eugen, this is a conversation for when we’re out of the country. Please?”  
Konrad eases the car to a halt. A convoy of trucks packed to the brim with soldiers rockets past on the adjacent road. Both of them hold their breath until they see the bandages, crutches, and missing limbs that impede each and every soldier, and the red crosses splashed against the body of the vehicles.  
“Alright,” says Konrad. “Just relax kleyntshik. My coat should be by your feet, there’s a handkerchief in there for your head.”  
The last truck in the convoy zooms by, and the roads become clear again. Beatrice breathes a sigh of relief. She knows that there will be hundreds of soldiers between here and wherever Konrad has left Albert and Claudette. But passing that convoy without being looked at twice feels like a reassurance that they are not being hunted. Even if the soldiers were otherwise engaged.  
“Where did you leave the others?” says Beatrice. She presses the handkerchief to her head; it comes away with blood that is still fresh. The cut must be deeper than she realised.  
“That little cottage just outside of the city,” says Konrad. “Don’t worry.”  
“It’s a little late for that.”  
Konrad chuckles. “Welcome to adulthood, kleyntshik. Every waking moment is filled with nothing but worry.”  
“I imagine that being arrested and shot is a very different sort of worry than having to pay your taxes and buy food every week,” says Beatrice.  
“I can see this becoming another argument,” says Konrad. “Go to sleep; you look like you’re ready to pass out.”  
“I’m not—”  
“Sleep, dammit, before I knock you out myself.”  
Beatrice smiles, letting her eyes drift close. “You’re so caring, Eugen.”

The slam of the car doors being opened jolts Beatrice awake. She sits bolt upright, only to see that its Claudette and Albert climbing into the back.  
“Oh good, you’re not dead,” she says. “Albert, pass me a canteen, would you? I need to clean my face.”  
Albert opens his mouth to question the large cut across Beatrice’s forehead, but Konrad shakes his head. He sits back, eyes lingering on the wound in restrained concern.  
“How long until we reach Toulouse?” he asks, desperate to fill the silence.  
“Erm…seventeen hours.” says Konrad “Claudette?”  
“More or less.” she says. “But… having one person without proper papers is bad enough, but having two people, one of whom is part Nigerian, will probably attract attention. How are we going to get over the border?”  
“With charisma, wit, and money,” says Konrad. “And if we get desperate, Beatrice can flirt.”  
“I’m a very good flirt,” Beatrice says sleepily. “I’ll even flirt in French; men go wild for a woman speaking French. Tes yeux sont très jolis, je voudrais les arracher de ton crane, that sort of thing.”  
Claudette laughs weakly. “Maybe not.”  
There are still hours and hours until they reach the border. It is both a comfort and a worry. The distance between them and the safety of Vichy France is extreme, but so is the distance between them and the inevitable encounter with German border officials.  
They drive in almost perfect silence, allowing all of them to drift in and out of sleep. Beatrice offers to take the wheel, and Konrad falls asleep within minutes of tightening his seatbelt. When they begin to near the town of Freiburg, the dark cathedral spire looming in the night, they swap back over.   
“Claudette, lay down on the floor,” says Konrad. “And try not to move too much. Albert, keep your mouth shut and look pretty. The last thing I need is you making anyone angry.”  
They leave Freiburg behind, winding down a road that runs parallel to the Rhine. It must be nearly five o’clock down, because the sun is beginning to rise. The streaks of gold, orange, and blue that tear through the misty clouds is comforting; they have lasted the night. But it is not enough to distract Beatrice from the border gate ahead, and the two dozen soldiers that linger there. Each one of them carries at least a rifle and pistol on his person. Two trucks, no doubt full of more weapons, are parked beside the tiny office building.  
“Now everybody relax,” says Konrad quietly. “And if anyone asks, you and Pierre in the backseat are engaged.”  
“I have poor taste.”  
“You have fantastic taste,” says Albert.  
The car eases to a halt as an officer steps out with his hand raised. Beatrice’s fingers tighten, bunching up the fabric.  
“Good evening,” says the soldier. “Papers please.”  
Konrad hands over his and Beatrice’s papers. The officer does not seem to notice that he does not have Alberts. He passes them to a lesser soldier and peers back into the car.  
“It will only take a moment to process your papers,” he says. “Where are the three of you off to at this hour? It’s very early.”  
“We’re on our way to Lyon. My niece—” Konrad gestures to Beatrice. “And her fiancée—” He gestures to Albert. “Are being married tomorrow morning.”  
“Congratulations to the pair of you,” says the officer. “May I ask, Fraulein, why your husband-to-be does not have his papers?”  
Beatrice has been pretending for two years now. She can pretend a little while longer. She peers into the backseat, and raises a confused looking eye at Albert. “Papiers, chérie?”  
Albert smacks himself in the head. “Je suis désolé, je me suis endormi.”  
He searches through his pockets, patting them down, turning them inside out. Beatrice admits to herself, maybe he should have been the one to go to Germany as a spy. He’s a very dramatic actor.   
“I’m sorry sir, he’s very messy,” says Beatrice to the officer. “He doesn’t speak a lot of German either. Rapidement Pierre. Ils vos attendant.”  
Albert huffs, and looks at Beatrice with an expression so vivid, she actually believes that he is panicked. “Je ne peux pas les trouver!”  
“What’s wrong?” asks the officer.  
“He says he can’t find them,” says Konrad. “Sont-ils sur le sol? En dessous de toi?”  
“Non.” Albert’s eyes go even wider, and he grimaces. “Je les ai laissés sur la table à manger.”  
Beatrice puts a hand to her chest, summoning the strongest, foulest look of disgust she can muster. She pretends that she is scolding a Nazi. It helps.  
“Que voulez-vous dire en les laissant sur la table à manger?” she screeches. “On n'a pas le temps de rentrer à Berlin, on se marie demain, imbécile!”  
The officer turns red, glancing between Beatrice and Albert, who is cowering. A soldier returns with the two identification booklets.  
“Just take them,” the officer says quietly to Konrad. “And make sure your niece does not kill her fiancée.”  
Konrad taps Beatrice’s shoulder. “Calm down.” he says soothingly. “It’s fine; he doesn’t need Al—Pierre’s papers.”  
As Beatrice and Albert sigh in relief, not all too forcedly either, Konrad gives the officer a grateful smile. The gate to France swings open, and the car rumbles back to life and speeds away. Beatrice counts to thirty, watching the gate swing closed in the rear view mirror.  
“My back hurts, can I sit up now?” says Claudette, her voice muffled.  
Albert helps Claudette back into her seat. She groans, rubbing her back. “You make a very convincing fiancée, Beatrice.”  
“I actually thought she was grumpy with me,” says Albert.  
“I’m always grumpy with you, you idiot,” says Beatrice. “That’ll teach you to sneak into a foreign country without papers.”  
Albert rests his head on Claudette’s shoulder. “Isn’t my fiancée so kind to me?”  
“Like an angel.”  
Beatrice crosses her arms over her chest and sinks lower in her seat. But it is only to hide the bemused smile on her face. Konrad, whose eyes are locked on the road ahead, does not see it either. She loves the two fools in the backseat. Her step-brother, a hot-headed, facetious, defensive boy playing the part of a lion, ready to throw himself in front of the herd at the mercy of another. Her girlfriend, the unchangingly kind, reserved, devoted soul with a heart richer than any gem in the ground. And Beatrice loves the fool in the front seat as well. Hedonistic, snarky, emotional, who has sacrificed more for their safety than any of them have realised.   
As Beatrice watches Germany disappear behind her, gradually giving way to French countryside, she knows that all three of her fools will make it out alive. Fools are not threats. They are the comical, the unthreatening, the unsuspecting. Nobody would dare to accuse a fool of a higher crime. That would imply that they were never a fool to begin with.   
And they are fools. All four of them. Foolish for being so pig-headed. Foolish for not speaking their mind often enough. Foolish for their selfishness. Foolish for trying to take on the whole world at once.   
Beautiful, beautiful fools.


End file.
